Colony Lost
by TopHatJam
Summary: Following the failed Manswell expedition at the dawn of Human space exploration, a second attempt using theoretical FTL technology is launched, and is likewise lost. The crew, finding themselves far from home, build another civilization in their new solar system. Centuries later, they prepare to launch an expedition of their own. What will they find in the galaxy they left behind?
1. Prometheus

Home.

A pale blue dot against a sable backdrop terrifying in its depth and intensity, punctuated by impossibly distant white pinpricks that twinkle and die on timescales beyond human understanding.

Humanity's cradle, once our only safe harbour in the cold, unforgiving seas of space – Now, a hazy legend mired in mystery. Like Avalon, a perfect utopia forever beyond the reach of the mortals destined to look from afar with greed and avarice. The gulf of blackness between the shoals of stars that make up the galaxies separate us from mankind's ancestral home. We, the lost colonies of Earth, could only watch that pale blue dot sail through the stars in the grand celestial dance conducted by gravity.

It had been well over a hundred years since the expedition that carried our ancestors far from home, although time had a funny way of bending over such large distances. 2070, by the old calendars, was the year when the groundwork was first laid. A businessman, frustrated at the lack of effort put into human expansion into the stars, used his substantial wealth to fund an expedition out into that unforgiving blackness. They gathered 300 brave souls. The best and the brightest that humanity had to offer. None would ever return.

At the time this was quite the scandal, but it wouldn't hamper humanity's progress into the stars. We had a taste of the wealth, and we wouldn't shy away from it over a few hundred corpses floating somewhere in the void. In secret, that businessman and a number of other interested parties continued their efforts. They would make a ship, grander than the one before, using science barely understood to propel the craft at faster than light speeds. If it worked, it would be a testament to humanity's ingenuity and mastery of the universe.

Scientists from all over the world were gathered to oversee the construction of the ship that would carry humanity to alien stars. No expense was spared. Not only was it large, it was equipped with the most advanced technology of the day, and facilities to allow for the ship to establish permanent human presence on a planet should the worst come to pass, and the ship found itself unable to return. Frozen embryos, databanks containing works of cultural importance, technical documents, and star charts that would hopefully guide the descendants of the crew home. It was to be the _Prometheus_. The champion of humanity.

By 2100, it was ready. The engine, inspired by the proposals of Alcubierre, would warp space to allow the ship to travel faster than the speed of light, and would carry the crew to Proxima Centauri, the nearest star to Earth (after Sol, of course). Theoretically, the drive would work exactly as intended, though the sheer bulk and cost of the drive prevented any small scale tests. To maintain a bubble of "real" space amidst the warped reality around it required power that a smaller vessel could not provide. The crew were confident, but would announce nothing until they had completed their trip, and could personally vouch that it would work. They hadn't spent significant effort disgusting the ship's true purpose only to stumble at the last hurdle and let the cat out of the bag. After the last disastrous expedition, any governmental scrutiny would delay the project years. That could not be allowed. Better to ask forgiveness than beg permission.

So the _Prometheus_ undertook its maiden voyage, and history repeated itself.

The vessel had vanished. Hundreds of meters of steel and ceramic, thousands of men, and trillions of dollars had just vanished in an instant. The incident was remembered as one of the largest industrial accidents in history. A giant, newly built mining ship was unfortunately struck by an asteroid, and fell into Jupiter. Any government investigation was frustrated through the liberal application of bribery, and no-one even noticed that the ship wasn't even anywhere near Jupiter when it vanished.

In the minds of those that knew of it's true purpose, it was a sign that for all of humanity's combined efforts, some laws of the universe couldn't be breached. All the techs knew was that the ship had been folded away into a pocket of space, and had likely been crushed by the forces, or had sublimated into pure energy. Some held hope that it would return, but after years without any sign of the craft, that hope was abandoned, the _Prometheus _was forgotten, and the principles used in the drive's construction with it.

Of course, there was just one little problem: The _Prometheus _wasn't gone, and the drive had worked. If anything, it had worked a little too well. The ship had been slingshotted out of the solar system as though swatted by an angry god. Flung through space, trailing an invisible gravitic wake, the _Prometheus _blazed far past it's intended target in an instant. In the time it would take for someone to blink, it had crossed a tenth of the galaxy. By the time that any of the crew had even realized what had happened, it was already in intergalactic space. By the time they sent the shutdown command to the drive, the ship had begun inexorably drifting towards the largest nearby gravity well, the momentum having already begun to bleed out.

The crew felt nothing more than a slight tug at their stomach as the ship lurched back into reality, the twisting bubble of space that had shielded them on their journey peeling back and unveiling their surroundings.

A star, some planets, and an alien sky.

I could give some figure to express how extremely lucky the _Prometheus _was. Fractions expressed in scientific notation would be without passion or poetry, and anything less would understate it, so rather than that, I'll simply say that describing it as an act of divine providence is too weak a phrasing.

They had stumbled across not one, not two, but three planets that, after some relatively minor terraforming, would be habitable. Atmospheres with the correct composition, at a reasonable pressure. Temperatures within the realms of human tolerance. Oceans of liquid water, free of any harmful chemicals or alien lifeforms. A veritable Eden.

But a decision needed to be made. Many wished to return home. That had been the original plan, and even though the possibility that they might be stranded or killed had weighed heavy on their minds, they saw no reason that they should stake a claim and settle in for the long haul now. They had a working ship, and a working drive. If recalibrated, they could potentially sail straight back to Earth and report their wild success. Discovering three new habitable planets, a faster than light drive that carried them all the way to another galaxy would land each and every single member of the crew a place in the history books. They'd accomplished more in moments that any other had accomplished throughout their entire lives. They could return and be heroes!

That was the plan, for a while. The _Prometheus _hung in orbit around the planet nearest to the star, both as of yet unnamed, for a few days as the engineers checked the drive and the computers, while navigators tried to plot their course and find a way home. With each passing hour, the task seemed more and more impossible. The drive had burnt out from the energy surging through it. Sensitive components were mangled, and could be repaired, but the effect the repairs would have on its operation were unknown. As for their course? It was wildly unpredictable. Using what information they could gather from their journey, they updated their predictions and what they found was disturbing to say the least. The distance they would travel was unpredictable, and the ship was prone to massive, galactic scale drift. Even assuming they could improve the accuracy to the point where they wouldn't just miss the Milky Way entirely, they were exceedingly unlikely to end up anywhere near Earth, and such an effort could take years.

The crew may have wanted so desperately to return home, but they saw the writing on the wall. It might not have been impossible, but it was a risk they weren't willing to take. They would make planetfall, keeping the ship in orbit, and begin to colonize the planet that they orbited, as it had the closest conditions to Earth of all the planets available to them.

Thus, a new era of humanity began. The wayward sons of Earth driving their flags into alien dirt, with ploughs and picks soon to follow.

Names came first, though.

Up until this point, the colonists had simply been referring to the planets by their position in the solar system, and their distance from the star, which had been christened "the star" or "that star". It was dreadfully uninspired, but it worked for the time. If they were to make their homes here, though, "planet 1" wouldn't cut the mustard. No, they needed names with some provenance.

Some offered the names of other members of the crew, or in arrogance so blinding it almost outshone the star, their own. Those were shot down.

Some considered digging through old star maps and trying to find a name or designation, that there might be some continuity. That was shot down too.

Finally, they considered going back to what had worked in the past. All the planets of Sol were named after ancient gods, someone had pointed out, as was the ship. It would be a very uncontroversial and safe decision to tread the road of our ancestors and steal their ideas.

This suggestion was met with apprehension. It was a little uninspired, but they really couldn't keep calling their new home Planet 1. With no better option, they took up the naming scheme of their ship and opted for Greek myth as the inspiration.

So it was that the star and its planets were given the least inspired names in human history. The star became Helios, and the planets Gaia, Hyperion, and Eos. This somewhat confusing arrangement of names was almost entirely disconnected from any logic, save that people just liked the names. Helios and Gaia were the only ones that bore any real relevance, the star being named for the Greek counterpart to the Roman god Sol, who like his cousin was the god of the sun, and Gaia being named for the goddess of the Earth, the planet named such for its similarities to Earth.

With the first trial overcome, the crew of the ship began to settle their new planet. Gaia would be the core of their new civilization, and they must first tame it. Gaia's surface was the only one to bear any extraterrestrial life. Limited to just flora, it was remarkably similar to that of Earths, albeit of millions of years before humans walked upright. Convergent evolution at work, it seemed.

The population on the planet grew as the embryos were unfrozen. Outposts grew to cities, and industry blossomed on the planet, providing for and requiring ever more workers. They were stable, the transition from the ship to the planet having been smooth, carried out according to exacting specifications laid out in emergency plans drawn up long before their fateful voyage.

Nothing could ever last, though. As the population reached the millions, the original colonists numbers were dwarfed by those that had been unfrozen, or those that had been born the… natural way. The few that remembered Earth firsthand, and had been chosen in part for their suitability for such a situation were no longer the majority. Discipline had begun to crumble. The loose, informal democracy that the crew of the ship had employed was woefully under equipped for the numbers it now governed. Change came slowly and cautiously at first, as the new government asserted itself and made the necessary changes to ensure that the transition remained smooth.

As the population swelled and the first generation of colonists passed, the fires of revolution would pass over Gaia. Decades had passed, and the cities of the planet had grown into shining metropolises, and the new Gaian Republic was, for the first time, ready to put significant investment into colonization of the other planets. Small outposts had been established, and the beachheads were forged on Hyperion and Eos after the _Prometheus _had passed by, but Gaia had been the focus of development. But now, they had the means to support new enterprises.

Political unrest and discontent began to swell among the population. Earth was but a memory now, and the colonists needed a new path to tread. Their survival was all but assured, and any work on returning to Earth was now merely one of many fields of interest, and one that seemed less appealing with each passing year. Questions were asked about how to treat the legacy of Earth. Would they try to emulate the old Earth, with all its flaws and imperfections? Would they leave behind the ties that bound us to that planet, abandon our history to allow us to become something new? Would they remember the lessons learnt, but allow ourselves the freedom to grow and change?

The discussion grew more and more heated, with partisan lines drawn and allegiances declared. It seems petty, looking back, but at the time it seemed so serious. Very "Battle for humanity's soul!" type stuff. The parties only fractured further as they became more entrenched in their beliefs, and things seemed poised to turn violent. Thankfully, the intent to colonize the other planets stopped things before they got any worse. Officially, the Gaian Republic controlled the whole system, but two whole planets lay beyond their realistic means to govern. They were frontiers, ripe for the taking, and those that favoured the Gaian Republic's official stance towards Earth, that being to learn from the mistakes, but not to emulate it, were all too happy to tell their political enemies to try their luck elsewhere.

The lines drawn politically soon became very real, as two new governments formed. The Hyperion Directorate, a collection of the small outposts that would later grow into city states, staked their claim on the eponymous planet, declaring their independence from the Gaian Republic almost as soon as they had the means to roughly support themselves. Hyperion was a rugged, wind blasted planet. Cold and bleak, it supported life only tenuously. The Hyperion stance was to surpass and overcome that which had come before. Earth was not to be emulated, or remembered! It was to be left behind with the rest of the galaxy they fled. They had to look to the future, not the past.

The Terran Continuum fled to Eos. The political party of the Republic most commonly blamed for inciting violence of any kind, the Continuum believed themselves to be the successors of Earth's governments, a claim made somewhat unreasonable by the fact that they had never set foot on Earth, and that none of Earth's governments knew of the expedition at all. The planet they had landed on was the furthest from Helios, and would be colder than Hyperion were it not for a higher concentration of greenhouse gases in the atmosphere. It was arboreal. Habitable, like Hyperion, but cold, though the equator provided more Earth like conditions than further up the poles.

For a while, this worked. Gaia stood as first among equals, and the ample elbow room that entire planets afforded them allowed the more extremist elements to avoid any conflict for now.

Things once again returned to stability. The three colonies grew in peace, developing the infrastructure needed to allow for real interplanetary trade. Gaia, with their established population and industry, became the center of trade in the system, with orbital docks and advanced infrastructure needed to launch and recover spacecraft. Technology blossomed, with Hyperion leading the pack as their cavaliere attitude towards safety and their near obsession with progress for progress' sake inspiring a technological renaissance. Culture bloomed, with each different camp espousing their beliefs through myriad works of art, but amongst them all the Terrans stood above all others. The nostalgia that pervaded their culture was a hotbed for heartfelt works and fiery rhetoric.

This was a new golden age, and though it would end, it's remembered today as the height of what we could've been, if we had controlled our baser instincts. I'd like to say that I knew who fired the first shot, but I really don't. No-one does.

The Terrans had fallen to despotism after a famine wracked their planet. The new government promised security, and they had provided it. They halted the famine through careful rationing, but had seized control of most aspects of Terran life in doing so. After the famine, they retained control of the government, though public unrest began to grow. The crisis was over, and they were unhappy that they still maintained the control they had. They needed a new adversary, and so they found two.

Gaia had watched as the Terrans starved. They were the largest producer of food in the system by a wide margin. The two other planets doubtlessly relied on Gaian food shipments to maintain their populations that had swelled to the low billions. For a famine to sweep Eos meant that Gaia had to be complicit. And the Hyperions? They hated the Terrans, clearly, for the two couldn't be more different. The Hyperions thought of the Terrans as the last bastion of Earth's memory that they had gone so far to destroy. With the Gaians under their thrall, they intended to destroy the Terrans once and for all.

That was mostly all lies, of course, but it worked. The Terran people, sufficiently cowed, kneeled to their government. If the charade was to be maintained, they needed to act. Hyperion and Gaia were the enemy, and the enemy needed to be destroyed. In secret, the Terrans built a fleet of warships, the first made in the system, and set out to conquer Hyperion and Gaia in the name of Old Earth.

Hyperion was no stranger to war. Though the other nations were coherent, requiring only enough military force to police themselves, the Hyperion government was a fractious federation of different city states, and had fought small skirmishes in the past, only to be brought to heel by the others. The Gaians had long since suspected Hyperion of plotting war, and the escalating arms race between the Hyperion city states and the Terran Continuum was clearly proof of treacherous intent. This led Gaia to begin imposing embargos on Hyperion and Eos that would hopefully curtail the buildup, but it was already too late. The two outer planets had feared Gaia's economic control, and had sought to render themselves self-sufficient. War seemed inevitable.

As I mentioned, no-one really knew who fired the first shot, because it all kind of happened at once. The Terrans invaded Hyperion, Hyperion launched interplanetary missiles at the Gaians, and a Gaian terrorist group destroyed a Terran naval yard. In short, it was madness. Each faction was at the other's throats, and it became clear that the fate of the system was at risk. It would only take a slight escalation for one of the planets to be rendered uninhabitable. After all, it was thought that an interplanetary war would be industrially and logistically untenable, and that had already been proven wrong. What was stopping them from dropping asteroids on one another but their rapidly fraying morality?

The war was bloody, and brutal, and I will refrain from further elaboration to spare you the sordid details, but Hyperion stood triumphant. The Terran army was shattered on Hyperion, and the Gaians surrendered when the Fleet Admiral Johan Fuchs threatened to drop nuclear warheads on every city until he received an unconditional surrender. The Terrans were last to surrender, following an extensive bombing campaign that reduced the cities of Eos to rubble.

We're still dealing with Terran rebels today.

It's been a hundred years since then. Our calendar no longer syncs up to that of Old Earth. 257 years have passed since we first emerged in the system. I'm not really sure what that is in the old calendar. Roughly the same, I imagine. It took us 257 years to finally make some headway on the drive we recovered from the _Prometheus_. Between war, strife, and the other immediate concerns of colonization, I think that it's understandable that it hadn't been our focus, but with the system under the control of Hyperion for a century of peace and stability, we are once again chafing at our bounds.

We have tried investigating other methods of faster than light travel, though none have bore fruit. It was probably a fool's errand to even try, given that we already had an example of one working drive, but the scientists shied away from further investigation in that field. Calibration of the drive was no easier now than it was back then, even with the leaps and bounds that we'd made in computing. Even the rudimentary AI we'd produced, and their fully sapient descendants struggled to make it work. Tests were difficult to conduct for the same reason the first journey had to be the one that would carry us all here the first time around: The size. The drive demanded immense power, and the means to project a barrier of a certain size. To do so required a ship of a certain size, and that size was large.

Even centuries down the line, it was not something that could be undertaken easily, but with peace upon us, we could focus on our task. It might be risky, but we are no strangers to risk. We, who forged the path to the future would not so easily surrender at the first sign of difficulty. The Directorate was ascendant, in control of Gaia, and what was left of Eos. This was the last frontier. The last of the riddles left to us by Old Earth. Should we overcome it, we would finally prove our superiority.

No expense was spared. The warship constructed to carry the drive was a symbol of our preeminence, and a sign of our growing paranoia. Armed to the teeth with cutting edge technology, the ship glistened in the pale orange light of Helios, it's armour sparking like lightning. Almost a kilometer long, it was the largest military ship that Hyperion had ever produced, almost as large as the _Prometheus_, and each and every square inch of the ship was dedicated to its task. The ship war informed by what we knew of space warfare from the previous war, and skirmishes with pirates.

Speed was paramount. Being able to avoid shots before they were fired is a valuable asset. As such, capitalizing on the ships maneuverability by maintaining range was necessary. The weapons that had come to define space warfare were missiles, drones, and the particle lance. Common only to Hyperion prior to the end of the war, the particle lance was a particle weapon that used magnets to accelerate particles to a fraction of the speed of light before sending them cascading into the enemy with unerring accuracy and speed. The holes they left were small, but could easily spear an entire enemy ship from bow to stern. They ranged in size and yield from smaller point defense beams and anti-fighter weapons to brutal spinal mounted cannons that blasted meter wide holes out of anything short of small planetoids. The missiles utilized a variety of payloads, the most dreaded of which was the "Silver Bullet", a nuclear shaped charge that fired a jet of relativistic tungsten into a foe. Drones were common, operated by AI or remotely from a ship, and were standard on most warships. Able to react faster than any human pilot could physically handle, they were used to deliver heavy ordinance to a target or screen heavier craft from missiles at a range that point defense simply couldn't.

Battles, therefore, were decided long before enemies entered visual range. Ships sparred, lancing each other from extreme range while desperately trying to jink to throw off enemy targeting. E-Warfare mostly commonly focused on this careful game, playing an instrumental role in predicting enemy movements or concealing your own. Quantum entanglement communication was common between ships, with flagships serving as a quantum relay for a fleet, and helped to coordinate action without suffering timelag. In space, every second counted, and they'd be shaved off where possible.

Shielding was not uncommon, but it was niche. Magnetic shielding could be used to deflect energy weapons, like particle lances, though needed to be carefully calibrated to certain wavelengths to avoid overheating when struck. Shielding against kinetic attack was rarer, and varied in function. Most used a second layer of magnetic shielding to contain a thin sheet of plasma which could be used to heat up a projectile to incredible temperatures, vaporizing it and deflecting it. This was power hungry, though, and likewise needed to be carefully calibrated should the ship wish to remain cool.

This new dreadnought had all of these features. A massive spinal mounted particle lance with an alternative neutral particle shield piercing mode, secondary particle batteries that would sweep the heavens of smaller craft and missiles, batteries of VLS tubes that bore thousands of missiles, and launch bays for swarms of drones that would sacrifice themselves to protect the ship. The hull was coated in the shimmering white titanium alloy used to deflect energy weapons, with layers of ceramic and steel beneath to absorb kinetic impacts. The first line of defense, however, was a formidable shielding system, multilayered with redundant generators, all powered by a massive fusion reactor that hummed like the heart of a god. Furthermore, it was equipped with the latest suite of communications, electronic warfare equipment, and AI that rendered it all but immune to hostile intrusion, and allowed it to remain in contact with the Directorate at all times. There was no doubt that this ship was the finest produced by Hyperion engineers. That was before considering the drive. It took up most of the engine deck towards the ship's stern, and it radiated an ominous aura that the engineers seemed immune to.

It was to be my ship. They chose me as the captain not because I had a sterling record, or because I was exceptionally skilled, or experienced. I'd spent my life hunting pirates, and had only a scant few years of experience doing that. I had yet to be killed, though that was a low bar to jump. No, the reason they chose me was my last name. Fuchs. You may remember earlier that I mentioned a man with the same name, and that was no coincidence. I am of a venerable line of spacefarers, and that, more than anything else, was why I was given command of this vessel. It was pragmatic, really.

The ship was unlikely to face any serious trouble, and should the worst come to pass for a second time, and the experimental drive launched them outside of their means to return, then the ship was provisioned to survive long enough to communicate what had gone wrong to the Directorate and await rescue. The wonders of quantum entanglement made that possible.

In short, my name would read well on the news, and that's what mattered. My skills were immaterial.

I looked upon the ship from the window of it's drydock, rugged umbilicals snaking around the craft like chains around a dangerous caged animal. With a chuckle, I realized that was pretty much what it was. A dangerous caged animal.

It had a distinctly predatory look to it. Like a shark, if sharks were a kilometer long and swam through space. The engineers said that it was incapable of making planetfall, though it almost seemed designed for atmosphere. When viewed from above, it had a rough triangular shape that narrowed towards the bow, and from the side it was slim, with jagged, knife like protrusions that jutted out diagonally. A pair swept forwards and narrowed the further forward they went forming a prow, while four sprung from the rear, one for each main engine block. In a plane, they would've been control surfaces, but on a spacecraft their purpose was a little more unclear. Only one familiar with spacecraft would be able to tell you that they were concealing radiators, or shielding sensitive components. Atop the ship, behind the telltale protrusions of missile tube hatches, the bridge lay flush against the deck. In combat, the bridge would be evacuated for the CIC, but during normal flight, people liked to be able to see outside.

On the prow, the name of the ship was printed in meter tall lettering: _HNC Epimetheus._


	2. Epimetheus

Drifting silently through the stale air of the observation deck, long coat trailing behind him, he made for the officers lounge on the habitation deck. Extended stays in microgravity was something he was used to, but anyone could tell you that it's to be avoided where possible. The human body wasn't meant for it, and while you could become accustomed, space had a way of reminding you that you weren't welcome.

The closer you got to the habitation ring, the more populous the station got, and before long Fuchs was awkwardly shuffling around enlisted as they tried to salute while also making themselves as flat as they could. The station had a certain utilitarian charm to it that, while certainly efficient, was far from what you might call ergonomic. After passing through what seemed like an inordinate number of airlocks, he was at last rewarded for his efforts with a rotating junction plastered in warnings that there was "Gravity ahead". Breathing a sigh of relief, Fuchs presses the button beside the airlock, which promptly slides open with a loud hiss and mechanical whine as the pressure equalizes itself.

Looking "down" at the ladder shaft beyond, he swiftly reoriented himself with a grace that comes only from innumerable fumbles, and begins to descend. With each rung passed, the familiar tug of gravity pulled harder and harder at him until his feet finally touched the deck once more. Spin gravity was difficult for a variety of reasons, but one couldn't help but marvel at the engineering work that must've gone into the giant rotating disk atop the drydock. Made to minimize the amount of inbound and outbound traffic, the habitation deck (or ring, or disk, depending on who you asked) was thousands of tons of spinning metal that somehow seamlessly connected to the rest of the station, allowing the crew to live their lives onboard, for a few months at a time.

Still, even here he was noticeably lighter. Hyperion had a surface gravity of about .9G, just a hair under that of Earth, and that was what most people were comfortable with. The station, however, had a "surface" "gravity" of less than .4G. It was enough that it got the job done, but it was an odd experience to say the least. Fuchs was comfortable enough with it, though.

The habitation deck was a kilometer wide disk, larger even than Fuchs' new flagship, but far less advanced. Weaving through tight, clinically clean corridors artificially lit to _try _to seem like they were actually lit by sunlight, he had the opportunity to marvel at the tiny apartment buildings set off from the main corridors, and the open spaces used for dining or simple gatherings. On the ground, they'd be woefully quaint at best, but in orbit these facilities were tantamount to luxury. Warships were considered luxurious if they had a single shower onboard. Fuchs imagined that the station must've had at least three.

Arriving at the officers lounge, he presses a keycard against the door, which beeps in approval and grants him entry. Leaning in, to take his first step into the room, his progress is halted by the sudden appearance of an obstacle. Stumbling backwards instinctively, his brain begins to catch up, and registers the obstacle as another person. A woman, maybe in her forties, with raven hair tied back in a neat bun. The first signs of her age began to make themselves known, the most immediately obvious being streaks of silver hair wound into the bun. Dressed in the same dark navy and gold uniform as Fuchs, she was clearly an officer of some sort, if her presence in the officer's lounge hadn't tipped him off to that fact. Still in possession of her faculties, she stands aside, snapping a smart salute as she gestures for Fuchs to enter.

"Congratulations on your promotion, Commodore." She flashes a reserved smile as she offers her felicitations. Fuchs' eyes drift over to her epaulettes, where sure enough, the correct number of golden loops were in place to indicate her rank as a Captain.

"Danke schön, Captain." He replies automatically, his voice grating uncomfortably in his throat with disuse. Nodding slightly as he enters, he takes a quick glance around the room, scanning for chairs. The lounge was basic by terrestrial standards. Drinks machines, snacks, and a table flanked by a pair of wide leather seats, wide enough to seat a few people each. Stalking over to the coffee machine, he plugs in his demands and the machine gets to work. Looking back over his shoulder, he finds that the Captain still stood there, watching expectantly. Fuchs blinked a few times. She had just been leaving. Was she a fan? No, he didn't have fans. Waiting to be dismissed? Didn't look like it. Did he know her? She… did look a little familiar… Sifting through half forgotten memories while peering into the dark fluid like an augur looking for answers in tea leaves.

"Captain Rowley?" He suddenly announced, turning to face the woman with mounting dread. He didn't exactly _mean _to unintentionally snub his to-be XO, but the reality was that he'd had to read so many reports that he'd almost gone catatonic. He fought to suppress the growing blush of shame that had begun to tinge his cheeks. "I… wasn't expecting to find you here."

Her body relaxes a little, going from rigid to merely formal. "I had been looking over the cargo manifests one last time before we boarded." She explained, returning to the divot in the chair that Fuchs had only just realized that she had left. "You'll have to excuse me for being cautious. I have the utmost faith in our engineering teams, but it can't hurt to be prepared for the worst, sir."

Captain Rowley should've been in charge of the expedition. There was no doubt in his mind of that. Looking back to the coffee, that seemed somewhat less appetizing now than it had before, he gingerly picked it up by the rim and placed it on the counter. He had read her file cover to cover, and had a certain feeling of dread that built with every page. He was certain that they'd chosen him for his name, but Rowley was chosen for her skills. She was one of the most experienced officers in the fleet, not through venerable age but through sheer density. Her career wasn't as long as some, but it was far more exciting. She'd been fighting pirates and rebels since her enlistment and hadn't stopped till she was pulled out of combat for this mission.

"No, of course. Can't hurt to be prepared." He echoed. She wasn't an intimidating person, but yet Fuchs still felt an overwhelming pressure that pushed him as far from her as he could be without fleeing the room, so he made himself comfortable leaning against the counter.

She raised an eyebrow, but only momentarily. "So, Commodore, have you taken a look around your new ship yet?"

Fuchs felt a dagger go through his gut. "Not yet. I only arrived on station yesterday. This has all been rather rushed, if I'm to be honest."

Rowley nods sympathetically. "Yes, it's all been rather unusual, hasn't it? I suppose they were so focused on the technical aspects that they forgot that they needed a crew to pilot it." She replied with a polite chuckle. "I was lucky to have been already on the station at the time, so I've had a few days to take a look around and get used to the layout. Say, would you like a tour, sir? Loading should be completed in a few hours, and then we'll be off, so it'd probably be wise for you to get a last minute inspection."

Fuchs took one last wistful look at his steaming drink, before signaling his acquiescence.

* * *

Trailing behind Rowley, Fuchs couldn't help but feel like he was out of place. He missed his little frigate. His name kept him out of most trouble, and there wasn't too much oversight. He was free to take it as easy as he liked. He knew his crew, some of them in ways that would probably break rules regarding fraternization, and knew his work. It wasn't glorious, but it had enough excitement amidst the drudgery that it kept him on his toes.

It was nice.

This was a different matter entirely. The best and brightest minds of the time had been assembled to make a ship so cutting edge that it may be about to violate some of the laws of physics as we understood them, staffed by the most elite and experienced crew that the Directorate could pull together, and all of it was under his command. It was wrong. All of this was wrong, he was just lucky enough to have the good fortune to be born with the surname he had.

Despite hoping for someone to wake him up from this nightmare, no such intervention would manifest before they found themselves on the other side of the docking umbilical. Looking back, the ribbed metal skeleton that held the umbilical rigid wavered under the weight of the kevlar sheath shifting due to pressure changes. In his mind, he knew it was very safe, but the sight never failed to send a chill up his spine.

Rowley stood before the airlock. "It seems fitting for you to go first, Commodore." She said, bringing his attention back to the ship. The flat airlock, separated from the rest of the hull only by a slight grove running around the edges, popped inwards and slid up and out of the way.

"Smart." He noted as he crossed the threshold, Rowley on his heels.

"The airlock cycles fairly fast. Not like some of the older ships, where it could take upwards of -" The airlock seals behind them, clicking into place. " - a few minutes. The transitions almost instant when the pressure and composition of the atmosphere matches the ship's." The other side of the airlock likewise slides up, allowing passage out of the cramped, industrial room and into the ship proper. The hallway ahead was as narrow as it was on any other spacecraft, and just as harshly lit. Railings on the side helped the pair navigate their way forwards. Warships made no accommodations for gravity, and were instead designed to be easily traversed in microgravity. Big on railings, soft surfaces, and confusing geometry. Not so big on floors. This was something he understood.

"So…" Fuchs drifted forwards into the corridor ahead, looking left and right from the T junction that he had emerged from. Empty. "I take it they didn't know we'd be coming?"

"The crew are rather busy, sir. Our provisions should already be loaded, but there's a whole battery of pre-jump checks that need to be done before we can undock. In the meantime, we can take a look through the rest of the ship, meet people as we go?" She offered, gesturing down towards to prow.

Kicking off in the direction indicated, the two sail down the corridor, only occasionally making contact with the railings to stop them from crashing into a wall. Silence, save for the rhythmic mechanical rumblings of the ship's reactor, took over.

"One hell of a shakedown run." He muttered, if only to fill the silence. "The last time anyone tried this drive, they ended up in a different galaxy."

"We don't have much of a choice in the matter, sir. I'm sure the engineers filled you in on the specifics. It's all or nothing."

The briefing he had been given had touched on the subject. The drive was huge, and required a lot of power to run. You could model the principles all you liked, but at the end of the day someone needed to actually give it a go. Sure, they could've strapped it to some metal frame and thrown it out into the void, but too many things could've gone wrong. They were afraid of ambush, or losing contact with it. Having a warship carry the drive removed a lot of the risks involved.

That didn't make it any less weird.

"The front of the ship is the most heavily armoured, with overlapping shield generators to provide maximum protection. It also plays host to the e-war center. Normally that'd be near the CIC, but here it's further forwards, so they're closer to the forwards facing sensors." Rowley explained as they reached a bulkhead door. With a thunk, the heavy locks slid out and allowed the door to swing open.

The e-war center was alive with activity. Rows and rows of screens and a large holographic display at the front of the room were tended to by dozens of personnel, most of whom paid the interlopers no mind, too engrossed in whatever work it was that they were doing. The room hummed with the sounds of electronics, and a wall of dry heat hit them as they entered. A short, brown haired man who'd wisely shed his outer layers of clothing oversaw the room, and had tracked the two officers the instant they entered. Floating over, braced himself on a railing with one hand and snapped a salute with the other, which Rowley quickly returned.

"Sir. Ma'am." He smiled widely, flashing white teeth that offered context for how ruddy his face really was. Dropping his salute and extending his hand to Fuchs, he continued. "I've got you at a disadvantage, haven't I sir? Lieutenant Brooks, comms chief. I'll be handling e-war and comms, though I figure you already knew that."

"Pleasure, Brooks." Fuchs replied, taking his hand and grasping it, which Brooks seemed to take as a challenge, as he retaliated by violently shaking it.

"Pleasure's all mine. I'll be up on the bridge later, just need to get everyone organized first. Make sure you don't set off without me up there, okay? Hell, I'd hate to miss that."

Fuchs responded with a dry laugh. "I'll try. Doesn't seem like we're ready to cast off just yet, so you should have time."

"Got it. So, what's going on, you on tour or something?"

"Something like that, yeah."

"Well, I gotta say sir, you'll like what you see. This ship's a beauty. Real bang up job they did on it. Make sure you get an eyeful before we throw her into hell, won't you?" He chuckles, and leans back, resting against the wall. "Won't be the same after we shear it in half."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that, Lieutenant." Rowley interjected, a look on her face stern enough to cow even the bravest of men, but Brooks stood strong.

"Yeah, fingers crossed. Never hurts to be prepared though, right?" He laughs again, a loud, booming thing that had more in common with a machine gun burst than actual laughter. Blinking tears out of his eyes, he returns his focus to Fuchs. "Anyway, sir, I'll let you get back to it. No sense in sticking around with me all day. I'll see you up on the bridge."

Fuchs left with the feeling that he'd just been dismissed by an officer three ranks his junior.

"He's a contemptuous little man, sir, but I was assured he was up to the task." Rowley launches into her explanation almost as soon as they were out of earshot.

"He seemed fine to me. Little undisciplined, but… I'm sure it's just nerves."

Rowley frowned. "I don't know about that. He's been like this the past few days. No respect for anyone." She added, shaking her head.

"I guess we'll have to see." Was all he could conjure as a response. "Where's next?"

"The armoury. Next to the CIC, with adjoined marine barracks."

"What's our complement?"

"For this mission, 2,000." She stated, suddenly coming to a halt as she grabbed onto the railing beside the door to the armoury, leaving Fuchs to awkwardly trail on a little longer before he could find a railing of his own and drag himself back.

"Did I hear you correctly? 2,000? I thought they misplaced a zero."

"2,000. They want to make sure that we could repel boarders, or put down a mutiny - not that I think we'd have a mutiny, of course."

Fuchs shot her a _very _skeptical look. "We're not hunting pirates. We're not going to repel boarders, and if everything goes to plan -"

"Things don't always go to plan." Rowley's tone brokered no argument. "Sir."

Before they could open the door to the armoury, it opened itself, and a shaved head appeared out of the new portal. "'Sup? What're you talking out here for?"

Fuchs leaned in to look through the door. The newcomer was a marine, evidenced by the lack of dress sense or formal demeanor, and a frankly disturbing number of tattoos, easily visible due to the well documented preference all marines have for tank tops. The woman before him looked to be at least as tall as he was (though it was hard to judge, given that she was on her side from his perspective) and probably twice the weight. Even the simple action of bracing herself against the doorway caused her whole frame to ripple, as well defined muscles wound tightly beneath the surface of her skin tensed and relaxed.

"Colonel." Rowley greeted the marine with a sigh, and then cast a glance towards Fuchs that could be most accurately interpreted as "_Get a load of this guy_".

"Oh, yeah. You're the new captain, right?" She asked casually, spinning herself around so that she was oriented with the other two.

"Commodore, actually."

"Well, you're in charge of the ship, so that makes you the captain, right?" For speaking so casually, her grey eyes felt like that they were boring directly into his soul.

"Yeah, but I've just been promoted so I feel like lording it over people." He answered, half truthfully.

This prompted a slight smirk. "Well, I can't blame you for that. I was insufferable when I got my bars. So, what're you two doing outside, anyway? You didn't answer."

"The Commodo- Captain is touring his ship." Rowley answers, stumbling over her words momentarily before regaining control of her tongue.

"'Bout time, too. We're going to be setting off in an hour or so, right? We just made sure all the weapons are secure, and that the Stormtroopers are happy with their accommodations. Better than they're used to, I'd bet."

"Right, the report mentioned that we had Stormtroopers onboard. How many?"

"200." Rowley answers, quickly.

"Yup. 200 of 'em. They ain't talkative, but they kill reaaaal good." Her eyes glazed over as she remembered some particularly violent incident.

The Stormtroopers had a legendarily brutal reputation from the Terran and Gaian wars. They were wounded and volunteers, taken from the battlefield and sent to undergo significant surgery. They came out the other side faster, stronger, and more durable than they went in. Few people are privy to the specifics, but they have some pretty serious mechanical augmentation going on. The technology was fairly mature at this point, with a few centuries of practice. They were part of everyday life, not just as replacement limbs, but for people who just wanted _better_ parts.

The Stormtroopers were a step above though. They gave people the creeps, and with good reason. Merciless cyborg soldiers were never a particularly enticing subject, and those that had seen them in motion had even more reason to fear them. They had become figures of legend. Some say they can breathe hard vacuum, and that the Directorate makes them out of political enemies, but all we know is that they are very lethal adversaries.

"So, the armoury." Fuchs continues, clearing his throat to get the marine's attention.

"Oh, right, yeah. Well, come on in. Not much to see though. Just a hell of a lot of guns." The woman waves them in, leading them deeper into the belly of the ship. The armoury of a ship is usually positioned next to the CIC for a few reasons, primarily that were a ship theoretically boarded, the crew could retreat back to the CIC and armoury and not have to spread their forces too thin, and that it would be under the protection of the thickest armour. After all, ammunition cooking off was bad. Worse still on a spaceship.

"That is a lot of guns." He astutely observed. There was row after row of sealed weapons cabinets, all theoretically fireproof. Marines sailed from cabinet to cabinet, carrying arms of various lengths and caliber, all the while shooting friendly barbs at one another.

"Not much else, Cap. Ain't a whole lot to see down here."

"Right." Nodding, he turns for the door, before he was struck by a sudden realization. Stopping in place, he turns back to the marine. "Wait - I never got your name."

"Colonel Summer. Though most people call me Kate, Cap." She gives a quick two finger salute before disappearing off into the bowels of the armoury.

"Alright then." Fuchs pushes off, heading back into the corridor as he watches Kate vanish. "Rowley, what's next?"

"Engine deck, then the bridge. By the time we get there, we should be ready to go."

"Engine deck, right. All the way at the back, right? Damn this ship is big."

"Biggest yet, sir. We'll pass the crew quarters on the way, but you'd not be missing much if we skipped them. Just be glad that we get officers' quarters."

As Rowley had said, Fuchs was very glad he got his own room. The tiny pods weren't all that much more than a bed and a footlocker. The ship needed enough for every single crewmember, so any space that could be shaved off without compromising the wellbeing of the crew was. The wetrooms were sufficient, and the mess offered enough space so that you weren't bumping elbows with the guy next to you. Most of the time, anyway. Food was basic, usually freeze dried stuff that was reheated and thawed. Not exactly high cuisine, but you weren't liable to starve.

The mechanical heartbeat at the ship's core got louder and louder as they neared the engine bay, till it wasn't just something barely audible at the edge of your perception, but had grown to be an absolute nuisance. At least you didn't have to shout over it, but he could only imagine how annoying it'd get if you had to spend more than a few hours in there at a time.

"So, I should warn you, sir, that our Chief Engineer can come across as somewhat abrasive. No, that's the wrong word. Protective." Rowley advised as they reached the bulkhead door leading towards the engine deck.

"How so?"

"It's no exaggeration to say that he's put more of himself into this ship than anyone else. He'd been overseeing the construction since the start. Don't know if your files covered that, but it's pretty crucial for you to know. He gets somewhat defensive over 'his' ship and it's capabilities. Don't get me wrong, he's realistic, just biased."

Fuchs arched an eyebrow. "If he's bad enough for you to have to warn me about, then I think it has to be a little more than just bias."

"You'll see for yourself soon enough." Rowley gives the door a hard push, and it swings in with a loud creak.

The other side was the most open room he'd seen in the ship, and one could almost be forgiven for thinking that they were on a planet, were it not for the fact that some of the engineers were hanging upside down or sideways. Engineers and marines were the only crew members that carried magboots as part of their uniform, though engineers seemed far more accustomed to their use. It turns out that having access to both of your hands without having to worry about floating off mid-task was handy.

A large, bearded man suddenly strode up with all the subtlety of a stampeding rhino, and wordlessly grasped Fuchs by the elbow. Somewhat alarmed by these proceedings, he looks over to Rowley, concern plain as day on his face, who rolls her eyes in response. Calming down when he realized that his XO wasn't reaching for her sidearm, he inspects the man that seemed to be grappling him.

He was tall, but stocky, with reddish brown hair that grew in vast curls from every inch of his head. Hidden beneath waves of hair were two piercingly blue eyes. Entirely too blue. They were glowing. Clearly they were artificial, and probably about twice as good as his own entirely natural eyes. The jumpsuit he wore was stained deep with grease, oil, and metal filings. Oh, as were his hands, which had transferred a good portion of the oil to Fuchs' pristine long coat. Wonderful.

"Haynes. Adam Haynes. I'm the CE of the _Epimetheus, _and I take it that you're the captain." The engineer growled.

"That's right." Haynes held his grip for a while longer, waiting to see if his new captain would pull away first. Fuchs would do no such thing, and held his ground. Maybe it was childish, but eventually the larger men let go with a huff.

"Well, as you can see we're rather busy here." He waves behind him, gesturing vaguely towards the arcane machinery that sat between gantries as engineers fawned over it. Pipes snaked to and fro, and in the center a semicircle of computers and screens controlled the whole operation. "All the calculations are done, we should be ready to go on your order, _sir._"

"I take it that you're confident that we should have no trouble?"

"Very." Seemingly unwilling to elaborate, or give any answer that wasn't monosyllabic, Fuchs filed Haynes under 'problematic individuals'.

The two stood in silence for a moment.

"Well, then, if everything is in hand, I'll be heading to the bridge. Make ready to cast off. Rowley, is everyone aboard?"

"Checks have come in green." She taps her ear, indicating that she was in contact with the rest of crew, likely with some sort of implant. "We're just waiting for your word."

"Order everyone to ready positions. I don't want anyone cracking their heads open because they weren't expecting the acceleration. That'd be an embarrassing start."

The trip to the bridge took a little longer than he'd imagined it would. After giving the order to strap themselves in, the crew had decided to flood the corridors to finish up whatever it was that they were doing before the order was given in time. Fortunately, the crewmen had the good sense to not get in the way of the two officers as they floated through the ship, and so awkward shuffling was kept to a reasonable minimum.

Drifting into the bridge, his XO behind him loudly announced their presence.

"CAPTAIN ON DECK!"

Unable to stand owing to the fact that they were all strapped into their chairs by now, the bridge crew swiveled around to face them, already saluting. A dozen faces looked at him expectantly. "At ease." He declared, and the crew returned to their tasks.

The bridge itself was of a fairly standard arrangement. The captain's chair was central, with his XO on one side, and the navigation officer (who was already seated) on the other. Around and below him were the rest of the staff. Officers of various rank and speciality who did work that Fuchs didn't really understand, but did accept to be important, in their own eldritch ways. From this position, he could not only see down onto the peons toiling below, but out at the blackness of space.

The glimmering skin of the ship stretched out before him, like a mountain against the night. From here, he could see the various clamps holding the ship in place, and the umbilicals connecting the dock to the ship's airlocks. It really was a caged animal.

Fuchs and Rowley buckled into their seats. Massaging his temples, Fuchs considered what would come next. Undocking would take only a few minutes if what Rowley had said was true, then cruising away from the station would only take a few more at 1g burn. The drive was already primed, capacitors charged. Activating that would only be a matter of giving the order. He consciously slowed his breathing. He was starting to hyperventilate. This was all a little too much, too fast. Couldn't he have had more time? No. No, it was too late. He was in charge now. This was his show.

After a minute, he found his voice. "Release the clamps. Navigation, give us 100 klicks of breathing room, 1g burn. Sound an acceleration warning."

A series of 'aye, sirs' came out from the crew who he hadn't realized were watching him almost have a mental breakdown. The bridge returned to the blessed state of not needing his oversight for a few more minutes, which he used to watch the ship slowly ready itself for travel. The clamps burst off, retracted into the dock.

"Captain, the dock authority has authorized our departure and wants to pass on their well wishes." Brooks, who had gotten to the bridge before them and taken up his workstation, offered.

"Excellent. Then let's be on our way."

The ship shimmied out of the dock, maneuvering thrusters firing cautiously, so as to avoid any accidental collisions, before the main engines kicked in, pressing Fuchs' head against the back of his seat. The time seemed to pass quickly, only a few minutes at most, before the nav-officer informed him that they'd made the distance.

He inhaled deeply. "Tell Haynes to ready the drive."

"Haynes said it's ready to fire on your orders, sir." The nav-officer replied. "Coordinates plotted, Haynes said this should drop us right at the edge of the next system over."

"Then there's no sense in waiting." The ship had stopped accelerating, but Fuchs felt like there was some immense weight on him.

"Do you want to say a few words, captain?" Rowley innocently suggested.

Fuchs racked his brain for something. He knew this would probably happen, but he wasn't the most inspirational speaker. Still, this may end up being a historic moment. Something short, sweet, and to the point should work, right?

"We will succeed where the _Prometheus _failed. We will return having once and for all mastered this technology, and when we do, will be the harbinger of a new golden age." He stated, almost unsure.

The crew were mildly impressed. Some even politely clapped.

"Well enough said, I suppose." She said with a shrug.

"Best I could do, given the circumstances." He returned a shrug of his own. "Now: Punch it."


	3. Tuning Fork

It seemed like, for a moment, the universe turned a blind eye to the ship. So repulsed was it by whatever foul blasphemies Hyperion's engineers leveled against it that it was easier just to allow them to continue than face them head on.

The sky outside the bridge was contorted violently, ripped and stretched around the ship like a blanket. Stars, once small pinpricks of light were drawn across the surface of the pocket as it reaches further, splattering them like raindrops on a pane of glass. The darkness warped and contorted once more, twisting back around and sweeping up all the light it touched, which seemed to curve away behind some unseen screen. The ship screamed in protest, voicing its displeasure at the objective laws of reality being cast aside like a child's toy through klaxons and warning lights.

The crew were silent as the last light was stolen by the void. For a moment, there was nothing but the deafening bawl of the ship, until an officer wisely silenced it. Space was dead. No stars, no light, no distant planets. Nothing. This wasn't some colourful spectacle, this was dread made material. And so, with no other option, they waited.

They wouldn't need to wait for long. A wave of nausea came over the crew as the strands of space coiled around them unraveled. Points of light streamed back in as the stars returned, like their entry played in reverse. A yellow sun burned, and some blue dot twinkled in the distance.

Fuchs let out a long sigh. They weren't dead. "We're alive, then." He muttered thoughtlessly. "I take it that it-" A sudden intrusive thought cut him off as he realized something that the rest of the bridge had doubtless realized before he had.

"We were bound for an M-Class Supergiant." He intones, his hand unconsciously moving to hold his head steady. The star, nibbling at the edge of the bridge's windows was not an M-Class Supergiant. If it were, there would be a reasonably high chance that they would be inside it, which had - amongst other things - given the imposter away.

Rowley, to his shame, was the first to give any orders. "Get us into contact with command. Now, Lieutenant."

"I'd love to Ma'am, I really would, but the QEC's non-operative." Brooks replied with the calm air of a man who wasn't on an experimental dreadnaught that had found itself in the wrong system.

"It can't be broken, that's ridiculous. QECs don't break." Fuchs declared, sounding less sure of himself than he had intended. "Have you tried… turning it off and on again?"

"Funnily enough, Sir, that was the first thing I did. I've tried rebooting the system three times now, and each time it's given me a wall of red lights. It's telling me that the chip isn't loaded." Brook's chair span around, giving Fuchs and Rowley a clear look at his console, for all the good it did them. Neither of them really knew what they were looking at, but it didn't take an expert to figure out that the number of red lights were a bad sign.

"Maybe the drive knocked it loose. I'll send a repair team down there, see what's gone wrong." An increasingly panicked Fuchs fumbles with one of the control screens for a moment before finding the intercom link to Engineering. The line opened with a click, and was immediately filled with the sounds of sparking electronics and screeching metal.

"Captain, things aren't looking good down here. As I'm sure you've realized, things haven't gone to plan." Haynes' gruff voice cut through the industrial din in the background. "And before you say it, no it wasn't our fault."

"I was going to ask you to send a repair party to communications. QECs dead." Fuchs returned. He'd wager that it'd take a long time for him to get used to their Chief Engineer's particular style of conversation.

"What? QECs don't break!" Haynes sputtered, incredulous. "It'll just be the housing, tell Brooks to reboot the system."

"I said the same damn thing, but Brooks tried that and it's still not working." The bridge crew all turned to look at Fuchs, with the same unsure expressions on their faces. He tried to look away.

"Well, there's nowt all I can do, we're all occupied at the minute. You'll have to wait."

"What's going on down there anyway?" As if on cue, a hollow clang runs through the length of the ship, loud enough for him to feel it in his bones. "It's not by any chance related to the fact that we aren't where we should be, is it?"

"Not a clue, and anyone who tells you they do know what's happened is a damn liar. I've been working on this drive for nigh on thir-"

"I don't need your life story, Lieutenant, just your report." Fuchs snapped, surprising himself. He hadn't realized just how frustrated he was getting, but given the circumstances he couldn't be too disappointed.

The response was a grumble that sounded more like a bulldog being drowned in gravel than a noise a human being could make. "If you're going to be like that, then… The drive has melted."

Fuchs blinked twice. "Come again?"

"It _melted._" He repeated, as though it made any sense. "We were expecting it to heat up, but mid-jump it started going haywire, like it was trying to rip itself out of the housing, then chunks of it just started to slough off."

Fuchs exchanged glances with the other officers, who seemed similarly lost. Turning back to the console, he ventures: "...Can you fix it?"

"No, I bloody well can't! What part of the drive having _melted _is so difficult for you to understand!" A loud clang sounds through the intercom as the Chief Engineer hits the nearest object with his spanner. "We had the supplies to fix it, but not build one from scratch."

Fuchs' head sinks into his palms as he massages his temples. "Is the ship capable of moving?" He asks quietly.

"Should be." Haynes replies suspiciously. "We've still got power, and there doesn't seem to be anything else wrong with the ship other than the drive. And the QEC, apparently."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. Just… clean up the mess. Salvage what you can. Bridge out." Fuchs hurriedly thumbs the disconnect button before Haynes could reply. Pulling his head out of his hands, he glances around the bridge. "Damage reports, now. If there's anything else broken I want to know about it."

Discipline returned to the bridge crew. They were professionals, yes, but the situation had thrown everyone off kilter. They could hardly be blamed for being confused. Swiftly, reports came in from various different stations, some in the form of verbal acknowledgements, and others in the form of reports forwarded straight to his monitors.

"Most systems are functional." Rowley surmised, sifting through the reports herself. "We're combat ready, should the situation call for it."

"Combat ready?" Fuchs was halfway through scoffing before he stopped himself. He realized that they didn't actually know where they were, or what had brought them here. Perhaps they were attacked? "Scan the area. I want to know what's in this system. Flag anything that looks like it might be artificial."

"Aye, captain." An officer responded, and a portion of the crew lept into a flurry of action once more. Fingers drummed on keyboards, and soon their scans began to bear fruit. "Tacmap coming up now, sir." With the officer's words, a holographic image took up the center of the room. First, it appeared as just specks of blue, little glowing dust motes in the air, unfolding with colour as it expanded. Eventually, it formed a fairly rudimentary map of the system, with certain objects flagged as being suspicious.

"Three objects? 15 klicks?! Focus on the big one, I want a closer look." He waved in the sensor officer's general direction. He would really need to get to know these people at some point, but for now he had more important things to deal with. The sensor officer seemed to be good at following orders, at least, as within moments the map zoomed in, circling down to the object.

It was big. Bigger than any other orbital construct he'd ever seen, and of no architectural style he could place. It's hull was grey-black, with strange protrusions and divots in the hull, usually lined with white lights that could be some sort of window. It was shaped like some sort of giant tuning fork, with a strange glowing orb in the center that seemed to be contained by arms that lazily rotated around it.

"Is it a weapon?" Rowley was leaning forward, straining against the restraints that kept her in place to get a closer look. "Is it hostile?"

"Can't say for sure, but it isn't emitting any heat, or just about anything in the EM spectrum save for light." The sensor officer explained, shaking his head.

"So what, it's some sort of statue?" Fuchs had never known anything in space that was worth paying attention to to be cold. Heat was a natural byproduct of any activity. If it was cold, that meant it wasn't doing anything, or it was getting rid of that heat somehow.

"It's certainly doing something… Maybe it's an art exhibit?" Having calmed down, Rowley was now leaning back, scratching her head at the anomaly.

"An art exhibit? A 15 kilometer long art exhibit?" Brooks laughed, shaking his head. "I doubt it. Doesn't look like any art I've ever seen, anyway."

"It isn't hostile." Fuchs concludes, slightly more eager to put things back on track now that Brooks was throwing his hat into the ring. "What about the other contacts?"

Once again, the map changed, cycling over to two seperate contacts, highlighting them both and splitting the hologram in two. One was some boxy thing,only a hundred or so meters long. Different components set into a long central spine, extending out past boxes bolted into the flanks of the ship and narrowing at both ends. A long plume of exhaust trailed behind it as it accelerated towards the tuning fork.

The other object was decidedly more predatory. It looked almost like their own ship, though smaller and bulkier. Four long stalks that swept from a narrow prow extended back behind the ship, each one ending in an engine cluster. The nose of the ship was flat, broad, and likely bore some sort of spinal mounted weapon. Parts of the ship had evidence of ramshackle repair work, with large segments of hull ripped out and replaced with rougher, darker plates. It too was accelerating, but it was on an intercept course. With the first ship.

He didn't need years of experience with pirates to get a pretty good idea of what was going on here. "It's a merchant ship, isn't it?" He pondered aloud, gesturing towards the boxy ship. "And the other's a pirate ship. Some things never change."

"More importantly, who the _hell_ do they belong to?" Rowley jabbed at the hologram, causing it to wobble back in response. "We're God knows where, looking at God knows what, and now there are… what, aliens? Terrans?"

"More importantly, do you want us to try hailing them, sir?" Brooks spun around in his chair. "We might be able to ask them where we are."

"Brooks, that is the worst idea I've heard all day." Rowley spat. "And I've heard some bad ideas."

"I'm with Rowley on this one. That's stupid. Do the opposite. Comms silence, go dark. We have no read on their capabilities, no idea where we are, and only the vaguest idea of what's going on. We observe."

"Sir, with respect if we don't try to make contact we might escalate the situation. We're not a quiet ship, and I'll be damned if they haven't already seen us. Going dark now won't hide us unless they're half blind and half stupid." Brooks glanced around the deck, looking for support. A few officers cast him sympathetic glances, but they didn't have the courage to back him openly.

"I appreciate your stance, Brooks, but right now we're out of our depth." Fuchs smiled internally. There was some irony about this situation being the most familiar one he'd been faced with all day. "We don't even know if they speak the same language, or if their comms can even talk to ours. They might communicate through graser bursts for all we know."

"Our cyberwarfare suite's already picking up radio signals coming from the ships, sir. We could decode them." Brooks was adamant. He could understand it, of course. If he'd been told to sit on his hands, his first instinct would be to do something, but he wasn't about to stumble into a fight they couldn't win.

"Decode, then. Don't contact them, just listen. See if you can piece something together. cyberwarfare AI should be able to handle that." Listening in, he reasoned, wouldn't expose them to any more danger than they were already in. And anyway, it's not like they were particularly well hidden. They were far out of visual range, but they still radiated heat like a raging inferno against an ice sheet. A cursory glance would pick them up, and if they did anything to draw attention to themselves, like powering weapons or maneuvering, it wouldn't even take that. "Give me an ETA as soon as you're able."

"Aye sir, we'll start decoding now." That seemed to placate him, as he turned back to his console and began giving orders to his own set of peons.

In the time it had taken them to finish the argument, the pirate ship had caught up with the freighter. Fuchs knew this wasn't going to be a fair fight, it never was. Pirates don't get into fair fights if they can help it. "Make sure you record this. I want all passive sensors pointing at those ships." The pirate ship was already drawing in close, within a few thousand kilometers. By this point, most would've pounced. Either Fuchs was missing something, or these were some awfully disciplined pirates. Despite the freighter's best attempts at evasive maneuvers, the pirate ship was too close to miss at this sort of range, and it suddenly lanced out, spearing the freighter's single engine with a slug fired from it's spinal cannon. Compared to particle cannons, the shell was positively sluggish, but it crossed the distance from to the freighter in a heartbeat, instantly wrecking the engine.

The bridge crew were watching the proceedings with a mixture of curiosity and grim excitement. Fuchs had to admit that there was something awfully interesting about the violence on display, like watching animals hunt on a nature documentary. It reminded him a little of the wolves they had on Hyperion. They didn't have many animals, but they did have wolves. They'd hunt livestock, and before they went in for the kill, they'd circle their wounded prey, watching the life seep out of them, then feast on the carcass. Very grim indeed.

He couldn't help but draw the parallel, seeing as how the pirate ship now drew closer, slowly matching speed with the freighter. Why it was running for the tuning fork, he may never know, but it's fate was sealed now. The pirate ship likely weighed significantly more than the freighter, and if it had any way of connecting to the freighter, it'd have no trouble manhandling it wherever it needed it to go. This was a fairly usual tactic for pirates. Cripple the engine, sidle up to the freighter, and board. It was the only reason ships actually had marines, because you certainly weren't boarding in a straight up fight.

Just as predicted, the pirate ship swooped in, halting just above the freighter as it began to extend some sort of docking tube towards an airlock. No doubt they'd flood the ship with men just as soon as they got the airlock open. Merchants were armed, sometimes, and being that you could usually funnel pirates into one opening, you could kill a lot of them. Pirates were many things, though, and rarely were they stupid. Once they realized you were putting them into a killbox, they'd figure out where you were hiding and slap a breaching charge onto your hull, blast you out, and let you breathe vacuum.

"What was that, a railgun?" Rowley spoke up, unaffected by the spectacle playing out hundreds of thousands of kilometers away.

"Most likely, Ma'am." The sensor officer replied. "It was relatively slow, less than .01c."

For orbital weapons, that wasn't the fastest. Slugs were designed to go as fast as possible. 3,000km/s was fast, but you could get faster with a smaller slug, and ultimately that was what mattered. You were very rarely within 3,000 kilometers of an enemy ship, and each second you could change heading so dramatically that anyone firing at you would have their aim thrown off, so projectile speed and evasiveness were of the essence. The invisible war fought between prediction AI and randomness generators was a vicious one, and the loser would invariably end up with a big hole in their ship, and the faster the projectile the easier it was to win.

"That'd be why they waited so long to close in. It's a weapon for precision kills at close range, not dueling." The gunnery officers all nodded in silent approval of the captain's verdict. "They probably have longer range weapons for fights at a distance."

"Missiles, perhaps?" Rowley stroked her chin as she inspected the pirate ship's hull. "I don't see many weapons. Some smaller ones. Point defence? Missiles could be hidden inside the hull, though." She suddenly shakes her head. "We still don't know what these things are, though. This could be a first contact situation."

"It's equally, if not more likely, that they're humans. I mean, you look at those ships and you tell me you couldn't see a human putting those together." Fuchs argued. It was true, they certainly didn't seem overly alien.

"Convergent designs. Plus, we don't know where we are. There's no reason there would be humans here." She takes a second to think. "And Brooks is having to decode their transmissions. If they were human, wouldn't they use something similar to us?"

"Not necessarily. Almost three hundred years of tech-drift could account for some pretty significant differences in comms protocols. Our computers are sifting through it fast enough, anyway. We're not sure if they're actively encrypting it, or if this is just how they deal with whatever sort of transmissions they are." Barely even turning around from his console, Brooks offers his opinion. "I'm not about to say that they're for sure human, though. We really _don't _know where we are. Under the circumstances, it almost feels arrogant to assume that they're human."

"We can pontificate on this all day long, but it's not going to get us anywhere. Brooks, you were chomping at the bit to do something, so _do something._" Fuchs had caught some of the comms officer's impatience. He was still conflicted, though. On one hand, intervention could invite wrack and ruin down upon them, but on the other, doing nothing was frustrating to the point of insanity.

"We're almost there, sir. We're just about to crack some of the basics, the rest should follow soon enough, once we have something to work with…" As he spoke, the tacmap was pushed to one side, replaced by static. "There!… oh." He turned to see the static, and immediately deflated. "Just a little adjustment, and…" Reaching around, he fiddled with some control, and the static faded away, replaced by what was unmistakably an alien. "Oh."

"Damn, he's ugly." Fuchs exclaimed, almost automatically. The alien's visage was, without a shadow of a doubt, ugly. Four dark soulless eyes, a muddy yellow complexion, a nose that looked like someone had stabbed him repeatedly in the face, and a row of needle sharp teeth, like some sort of deep ocean horror. The thing ranted at the screen in a guttural, choking language. Those assembled could only assume that it was angry, but it was a fairly safe assumption. Some things had to be universal. Shouting loud enough that flecks of saliva (or saliva equivalent) splattered the camera meaning anger had to be one of them.

"I stand corrected, then." Fuchs said with a sigh. "I never put any money on it, though. Anyway, do we have any clue what it's saying, or who it's talking to?"

"No clue. We've got no context to translate, so we'd need something more substantial for that. As for who he's talking to? Probably boarding teams. He doesn't look happy though, so things probably aren't going too well." Brooks squints at his screen. "We're running through their systems now. It's got more vulnerabilities than anything I've ever seen… Pirates…" He shook his head.

"Running through their systems? I told you to observe." Fuchs put on his best angry glare, but Brooks seemed unimpressed. "We'll deal with that later. For now, do you know if they've detected the intrusion?"

"No response so far. Shit." He sucks air through his teeth. "Half their systems are linked in to the comms. They don't seem to have any EWar AI, so we have the upper hand in that regard… I could probably blind them, if you wanted."

"Why would I want you to do that?" Fuchs leaned back. He already knew the answer, of course.

"Well, you were afraid of them calling for help, right? I could have them deaf and mute within minutes, and we could sidle up, careful as you like, maybe deploy some borders of our own." Brooks shrugged.

"And why would we do that?"

"Grateful locals might be disposed to lend us a hand. Alien or no, they've got to appreciate that."

"At least you're not proposing we do it out of the goodness of our hearts." Fuchs remarks dryly, prompting a subdued chuckle from some of the crew, and slight disgust from the others.

"You can't really be considering this, captain?" Rowley asks. "Deploying boarders, on the hope that their cybersecurity is as bad as it looks at a quick glance? This could be a trap!"

"I agree, it's very risky, but if Brooks is right about one thing, it's that this could save us an awful lot of time. Before, the situation was different. Hailing them would've given them ample opportunity to call for help, or get the first shot in, but this is different. We've got some idea of their capabilities, and we can be fairly sure they won't be calling for help."

"We don't know that that was the extent of their capabilities, sir. It's perfectly possible, even likely, that they were pulling their punches."

"As it stands, Rowley, we're low on options. I'm not willing to write one off just because it's risky. We're stuck in this system until we can repair the drive - rather _if _we can repair the drive. We have a better idea of the risks involved, and there are still unknowns here, but they're ones I'm willing to deal with." He chuckles. "And anyway, Brooks forced my hand. Pirates though they may be, they'll notice our intrusion eventually, and they'll start looking for what's doing it. We're barely even hiding. Frankly I'm surprised they haven't seen us already." Fuchs shakes his head and sighs. "Do it, Brooks. I want them dead in the water. Everything but life support. You sure you can get the right systems?"

"Fairly sure, sir. We've managed to get a confirmed ID on most of the systems. We've spoofed the right credentials, so it shouldn't be too difficult to lock them out. Nothing short of manually overriding it should work then."

"You've managed to do all that without even learning their language?"

Brooks scoffs. "Spoken language and computer-speak are two different things."

"Whatever you say, Brooks. Just do it."

"Aye, sir." A moment passes, and the alien's face (which had been silently ranting at the bridge ever since someone muted it) disappears. "Done. They're dead in the water, as requested."

"Alright. Helmsman, bring us in. Gunnery, I want weapons hot and trained on anything that looks like a power source. If they so much as twitch I want them dead." A wave of 'Aye sirs' wash over him. Fuchs could breathe a little easier, now. He might be far, far from home, risking his life and the lives of his men fighting aliens for no good reason, but they were piratical aliens, damnit. Something about that comforted him. He knew that. He knew _this. _This wasn't jump drives that violate the laws of physics in a way that should be criminal, or leading a one of a kind expedition with the fate of mankind in his hands. Well, maybe it was, but one problem at a time.

"Oh, and someone tell Colonel Summer to get the stormtroopers ready." 


	4. Boarding Action

Kenn'Dannah nar Rayya was having a really bad day.

He had left on pilgrimage eight years ago, with nothing to his name but an old rifle for protection and enough credits to pay for a ride to wherever the hell he pleased. There was a sense of adventure and freedom that came with leaving home for the first time. Everything was so different! He could do whatever he wanted, go wherever he wanted, all with the galaxy open to him.

That enthusiasm had bled out of him long ago. His first trip to the Citadel had proved enlightening, showing him exactly how much the aliens reviled him, and his entire race. While they lived in the lap of luxury, the Quarians were forced to scuttle at their feet, waiting for scraps from the galactic dinner table. You could work as hard as you liked, but not a single one of them would respect you. Sure, they might _humour _you, but it'd only be so they could get something out of you.

He was like a _ke'sed_, at first, blindly stumbling into whatever traps the aliens cunningly hid for him. His employers for his first job on the Citadel (one hard won), had seen fit to swindle him out of his money, then point to some obscure part of the contract to prove that they were in the right. He could still picture their sneers now. They thought he was stupid, but the reality was that he was just trusting. Trusting that basic empathy would stop you from so blatantly screwing someone else. It didn't.

He floated from odd job to odd job, becoming ever more suspicious of his employers, co-workers, and random passersby. Out on the wards, half of them would be out to kill and/or rob you. Especially a suit-rat. Eventually, he had enough. He'd worked for over a year and had nothing to show for it but a bad attitude. Any interest he had in the world outside of the Migrant Fleet had faded. What good was an apartment twice the size of your family home if your neighbors wanted you dead?

His goal was clear: He needed to return home, but with no gift to show for his efforts, where would that leave him? The idea of being a pariah in the Fleet sent a shiver up his spine. He needed to bring back something that no-one could deny would be of use to the fleet. A whole ship might be good, or maybe a big lump of eezo? Whatever he was going to bring back, he wasn't going to find mopping up the floors of fast food places on the Citadel. If he wanted to score big, he knew he needed to risk big, and so after polishing his suit to a mirror sheen and cleaning his rifle till it was sterile enough for even him to eat off of, he went to go sign up with a mercenary outfit.

Obviously they laughed him out of the room. No-one wanted a Quarian on their crew, they were just a liability. At least that's what they said. He was furious at the time. Flush with indignant rage, he stormed back to his apartment to sulk, but looking back on it now, it was probably for the best. Even if they had accepted him, they didn't respect him one bit, and they'd sooner throw him out the airlock for sport than pay him his fair share. Not that it mattered now - he was dead either way - but the work would've been way more dangerous, too. One hole in the suit, and he was on his ass for at least a month while the inevitable infection worked its way out of his system.

He kept stalking into bars to offer his service to half drunk mercenaries who all gave him the same befuddled snort by way of rejection for as long as his dwindling savings would let him. This would've been the end. Forced into destitution by his hatred of the people he lived beside until he became the exact sort of thieving rat that they all knew he was. It would've been the end, if not for one opportunistic Volus.

Volus, Kenn had to admit, were the more pragmatic of the aliens. Sure, they didn't seem to like Quarians a whole lot more than anyone else, but they weren't quite as likely to screw you over. The Volus were businessmen first and foremost, and while a charitable Volus was as rare as a friendly Geth, but they knew better than anyone that screwing good workers gets you nowhere. So what would a Volus see when they look at a down-on-their-luck outcast with an instinctive knowledge of engineering and a desperation to leave the Citadel for literally anywhere else in the galaxy?

The answer is credits.

And so it was that Kenn joined the crew of the MSV _Welm Urun_ as an engineer.

It'd been six years since that day. Kenn's pay wasn't great at first, but soon enough the Volus captain saw fit to give him numerous pay rises. He'd amassed a small fortune, certainly enough to return to the fleet to open arms, but over those six years something had changed. The crew of the ship were from all different races. A Turian guard, a Human pilot, an Asari navigator, and even a Krogan, who as far as Kenn could tell, was hired solely to intimidate people who might try and swindle them. When he first boarded, he thought that these aliens would be no different to the others, just a bunch of predators hiding their fangs till they could find the opportune moment to strike.

He'd slept with his rifle for three months before he realized that no-one was going to rob him in his sleep. He'd still avoided the crew whenever he could, watching their camaraderie from a distance with envy. How nice it must've been to be accepted, he'd thought. How nice it must've been to have friends in this cold galaxy.

Slowly, though, he came to trust them. It was the Asari who tried to crack his shell first. The Turian and the Krogan were more than happy to let him have his space, proud as they were, and the Human was too awkward to know how to approach him, but the Asari have always had a strange way with diplomacy. Maybe it's the whole mind-melding thing, but they've got a soft touch that no other race has. The Asari, Enyx, had known exactly where to push him. At first it was just some polite conversation over a meal, but that had grown to smalltalk when they were off duty, or proper conversations when they had the time.

She'd inquired about his life, and offered her own anecdotes when she sensed that he wasn't going to be forthcoming with any more information. He was guarded at first, but gradually she eroded the barriers that he'd erected over the past few years, and encouraged him to reach out to the other crew members. He, encouraged by Eryx, finally started to join their conversations over communal meals, and from there something that could be described as an actual friendship began to form between him and the other crew members.

He had bonded with Terus, the Turian, over their common diets. While the rest of the crew were levo, he and Terus were the only ones who could actually share food. The two would often alternate cooking duties, with each one bringing some new meal to the table every day. It was interesting, eating what Terus had insisted were the standard meals served every day on Palaven, coming from a society for whom meat was rare. This practice led to a small adventure on Illium, where he and Terus had been forced to track down an awfully elusive butcher who had tried to run off with a rare cut of meat from an animal indiginous to Palaven that had come to be almost extinct in the modern day, _after _they'd paid out of the nose for it. Kenn didn't have the heart to tell him it tasted awful after all the effort they went through to get it.

Panak was an old Krogan, who'd had his fill of battle centuries ago. Having lived through the end of the Krogan Rebellions, he had no end of war stories to tell, and rarely did they have happy endings. He was more than content to live out what was likely the last of his days on this quiet merchant ship. Kenn liked Panak more than he liked any other Krogan, that was for sure. Most Krogans were thuggish murderers, and while Panak had been responsible for more than his fair share of murders, he had an almost poetic or philosophical air about him. He didn't seem to harbour much anger or animosity towards anyone, and was more than happy to share his reserve of alcohol over endless tales of valour and heroics. To take him up on that implicit offer was unwise, though. Supposedly he remembers a time where Quarians could drink Ryncol with no ill effects, but Kenn suspects that he was playing some sort of awful prank on him. He'd been unconscious for three days, and had to spin some tale about an industrial accident involving paint stripper to avoid being fired.

The Human, Freddy, was a strange one. He mostly kept to himself, and was generally pretty reserved, but not to an impolite degree. He'd accidentally let slip during a conversation over food that most of his paycheck went to some sort of game played with small plastic models. Kenn thought he was joking at first, but after inquiring further he confirmed that, yes, he spent a good chunk of his paycheck on artisan plastic models. Intrigued, Kenn asked to be shown what this game was all about, and Freddy's previous shyness had vanished. With an almost manic excitement, he ran through all the rules and factions, and dropped off a dizzying amount of supplementary material in Kenn's room. The two had played every week for the next few years, and Kenn had started to build his own collection of models, even if he didn't understand why grey plastic cost so much in a world with 3D printing.

And Eryx. Kenn would not forget Eryx as long as he lived. If he were being honest, she was the real reason he hadn't returned to the fleet as soon as he was able. She was young by Asari standards, but three times his age. A maiden, she had spent her 'youth' travelling the stars on various different merchant ships. Despite being more experienced than everyone on the ship (bar Panak) put together, she had a violent enthusiasm and energy that few could match. Kenn had been entranced. At first he'd kept his attraction close to his chest. Living every day of your life in close proximity to another person could be awkward at the best of times without unrequited love making things more interesting. Eryx, though, was almost precognizant, and she knew all about it almost before he did. He'd expected her to be disgusted, or at the very least embarrassed. Who wanted a suit-rat having those sort of feelings towards them? She surprised him, however, by returning the feelings with the boundless enthusiasm that she put towards everything else.

Doubts curled at his mind like inky whispers. Fear that she might leave him, fear that she might be leading him on, fear that she didn't really love him and that he was just a fling, fear that he couldn't return to the Migrant Fleet with an alien wife… Fears, fears, fears, and through it all she stood by him, cutting through it all. The reality was that she loved him, and he loved her, and that all his fears were misplaced. So long as they were together, they'd find a place in this galaxy.

She was dead somewhere on this ship now. He didn't know where, but the pirates were everywhere out there. He'd barricaded himself into the bridge, locked in a tiny room next to Freddy's twitching corpse. Kenn had taken just a second too long to close the bridge, and Freddy caught a bullet in the back. Kenn had held him in his arms, his hands over the bullet wound, while what was left of his shredded heart fought desperately to pump all his blood out. His dark blue suit was drenched from head to toe in his friend's blood.

Bile crept up from the back of his throat at the realization that the only people in this entire galaxy that he could call friends were dead. The pirates had pounced on them too quickly. Freddy tried to keep them out of range, but he was fighting a losing battle. Panak and Terus had tried to hold them off as they breached. They racked up a substantial body count before the pirates stopped sending men through and started dropping grenades. Kenn and Eryx had been separated by the blast, and forced to retreat by the rapidly advancing pirates. They were too busy salivating over their haul to bother with the lone Quarian in the bridge. Discipline had broken down when they realized how much eezo they were carrying.

The whole freighter was packed with the stuff. This was meant to be their last big haul. As much eezo as they could carry out of some shady mining operation in the Nemean Abyss, to drop it off at one of the captain's contacts in Omega and make a tidy profit. With his share, he could return to the Migrant Fleet, or buy his own ship, or even settle down with Eryx, for as long as he'd last.

That was the plan, and they knew the risk was high, the Nemean Abyss was filled with pirates, and a ship carrying this much eezo would be a tempting target. They'd hoped to be in and out before anyone noticed, but they'd been intercepted. The pirate had fired a few warning shots at them, and offered them their lives if they surrendered, but not a single one of them were going to do that. Not out of greed, mind you, but common sense. Batarians aren't exactly known for letting unarmed prisoners go free.

The bile threatened to plaster the inside of his mask again as he thought about what the pirates would do if they caught Eryx alive.

* * *

Stormtroopers crawled alongside the hull of the pirate ship like shining metal ticks. Their armour consisted of the same high-grade titanium/ceramic laminated composite as the _Epimetheus_' hull, with an additional layer of shock absorbant cushioning that helped to deal with high energy impacts. Beneath that, servos whirred in concert with the bearer's actions, electromagnets secured them to the hull and tiny plasma engines stopped them from spinning off into deep space. They lacked the ship's magshielding, but the armour was considered sufficient to resist infantry-grade weapons for long enough for the Stormtroopers to kill anything that dared to fire back.

In their hands, miniaturized particle lances, called pulse carbines, were ready to kill. They were new, and bleeding edge weapons. The first real advancement from the chemical weapons of yore. Expensive and occasionally tempramental, a pulse carbine might've packed less power than their ship mounted brethren, but their effect on targets was still impressive. Rather than punching clean through the target, pulse carbines rapidly flickered their 'beam' thousands of times in a second, causing the target point to overheat while the raw force ablated the outer layers. The result was a weapon that caused the target's own armour (or failing that, flesh) to become shrapnel. It was gruesome.

Backing them up were the relatively archaic chemguns, of similar breed to those used since long before the arrival of the _Prometheus _in the Helios system, albeit with numerous advancements. Compared to those older weapons, chemguns had telescoped, caseless ammunition, and advanced recoil dampening systems that reclaimed some of the energy as electricity to be used to power auxiliary systems. Often, chemguns were also coilguns, using large battery packs to further accelerate the projectile as it leaves the barrel. Though relatively much cheaper and more reliable than pulse carbines, or other similar small arms, they had somewhat of a problem with overheating. Lacking cased ammunition meant that there was no easy way to remove the heat of the detonation within the firing chamber, a problem only exacerbated by the increasingly potent propellant used to keep up with armour developments. Chemguns were therefore increasingly uncommon, though by no means ineffective. Stormtroopers used heavy assault chemguns, belt fed monstrosities that let out a ceaseless stream of hot lead in the general direction of enemy forces.

The Stormtroopers had been informed that the pirates were too busy salivating over their loot to even notice that their sensors had been shut down, and with nothing to alert them to the sudden approach of a dreadnaught, they had free reign to breach wherever they liked. Their orders were simple: Board the ship, kill the pirates, steal any technical information, navigational data, and valuable resources that they could. If the Stormtroopers were the inquisitive kind, they might wonder why Brooks couldn't simply lift the data and information needed from the pirates system. The answer to the question unasked was simple. It wasn't on a vulnerable network. The pirate's shoddy network engineering had left some systems that really shouldn't be vulnerable (life support, communications, reactor controls) vulnerable, behind only enough firewalls and authorization checks to prevent the least determined electronic attacks, while other innocent systems (navigation, for example) might've been represented by actual physical maps for all he knew.

"_Pirates._" The Stormtrooper sergeant spat derisively.

The metal ticks seemed to have silently chosen an entry point, as from all around the craft, they clambered towards one specific point. From the outside, it seemed like any other part of the hull. Not particularly weak, or seemingly vulnerable. To the Stormtroopers, though, it seemed perfect. It was flush with the rest of the ship, and careful tapping revealed that it was seemingly against some sort of hallway. Listening closely, one could almost hear the sounds of footsteps, the vibration transmitting through the hull. Not the stilted walk of magboots, where you have to waddle in such a way that ensures that one foot is on the ground at all times, but an honest to God normal walk.

That was odd for a number of reasons, but the Stormtroopers didn't question it. They filed it under 'potentially important tactical information' and began to place the breaching charges, while a smaller number kicked off from the hull and formed a regimented perimeter in the shadow of the _Epimetheus_, facing the hole to be with weapons raised.

With a thunk, the last charge activated it's magnetic clamps and pinned itself to the pirate ship's hull. By this point, the Stormtroopers assumed, the pirates would've heard something. It wouldn't be too long before they figured out what was going on, but it was already too late. A mental command is given, and a massive ragged hole is blown in the ship. There's no flash, nor booming thundercrack, just a bone grinding shudder as the ship quakes under the impact of the breaching charges tender ministrations. The Stormtroopers around the breach take hold of the pirate's new window, hands scraping against the red hot, jagged hull before tossing it into space with one clean movement while the team above them watch for any signs of hostile action.

When no threat materializes, the first team of Stormtroopers, numbering no more than twenty, entered the breach. Hovering in with their plasma jets, they're caught in the ship's phantom gravity the instant they pass through the hull. To their credit, they take the sudden lurch rather well, rolling onto the deck of the ship with athletic grace. The ship's hallways were well lit and spacious, and had presumably once been clean and hygienic, though the pirates had taken to redecorating with alien urine and spray paint. Hiding their disgust, they inspect either end of the corridor. One seemed to be a dead end, though it was likely once a doorway, the pirates had simply welded a solid steel plate over it. The other side was protected by a shimmering blue field that stretched across the entire hallway. Quickly running through a list of possibilities, the Stormtrooper leading the charge determined it to be some sort of atmosphere retention device. Approaching cautiously, he extends a lone hand towards the barrier. Meeting no resistance, he pushes through and feels the familiar sensation of air rushing against his hand as he sways it back and forth.

Motioning to the rest of the squad, they fall into line and begin to press through the barrier. The pirates would soon be upon them, and they wanted to secure a beachhead as soon as they could. They moved in robotic lockstep down the corridor, simply accepting the inexplicable presence of gravity as a new fact of life. It didn't take them long to meet their response.

A handful of technicians and pirates had been mustered to deal with the explosion, dragged away from looting under the threat of being sold into slavery, eaten, or thrown out of the airlock. They really didn't care about the shitheap of a ship they served on, and certainly didn't care about their 'superiors', so they took to the job with all the enthusiasm of a dead vole. It was for that reason that they weren't really paying attention, but unfortunately the Stormtroopers were.

The two groups met one another at a bend. The engineer at the head, a Turian who probably had warm childhood memories of his family, dreams for the future, and aspirations for his life had his childhood memories, dreams, and aspirations cruelly dashed against the wall by the rampaging Stormtrooper, who grabbed the Turian by the head, lifted him up, and slammed him into the bulkhead with enough force to send giblets flying for a dozen meters.

This gave the other pirates pause, but the Stormtroopers didn't even wait for the blue haze of Turian blood to clear before ripping into the terrified pirates. Falling upon them in an instant, the Stormtroopers translated their knowledge of human anatomy onto these humanoid aliens, and started targeting the heads. In such close proximity, the pirates didn't even have time to raise their weapons before the Stormtroopers had them dialed in. The high pitched whine of pulse carbines filled the air as neon blue lights streaked from their weapons, impacting the pirates heads with the force of a sledgehammer focused on an area smaller than a needles tip. The heads of those without armour were suddenly and violently caved in, as the force of the impact and the heat generated caused them to explode inwards. Those with armour, however, displayed an unusual phenomenon. The beams from the pulse carbines seemed to partially bend around them, as though _something _were trying (and mostly failing) to deflect the particles. The effect was only partial, though it noticeably increased the number of shots required to put them down.

Not that it saved them. The Stormtroopers had the drop on them, and after repeated hits the strange warping effect the armoured ones had on the beams seemed to dissipate, allowing the boarders to finish them off. The proverbial dust settled, and the Stormtroopers checked the situation. Blue and red blood mingled on the floor and walls of the corridor, likely not for the first time if the stains were anything to go by. The lead Stormtrooper didn't frown, he'd forgotten how, but he would if he could. Kneeling in the pool of blood as the other Stormtroopers continue down the corridor, he inspects the bodies.

There wasn't much left but meat. They had once been living, thinking creatures, but now they were nothing but cooling flesh that'd be left to rot if it weren't likely going to be dumped in a vacuum. The charnel house the others had just stomped their way out of might've turned the stomach of a normal human, but the stormtroopers had synthetic stomachs, so it didn't phase him. What had caught his attention, and what had stopped him from moving on with his brothers and sisters was that he'd noticed something. Something he was certain the others had seen too, but he needed to be sure, for tactical reasons.

He stalked over to the alien whose head he'd pounded flat against the wall. Flipping him over with his foot, he got another look at the death mask of some sort of horrid bird creature. He didn't know what it was, but he didn't like it, and liked it even less when he realized that it implies the existence of an entire race of horrid bird creatures with blue blood that lasted long enough to achieve spaceflight.

Squatting down on his clawed feet, he looked to the rest of the carnage. The remaining pirates had fallen in a heap. There was another one of the birdmen, two of the four-eyed ones, and a helmeted one that he couldn't identify. From the frame, he'd wager that it was one of the four-eyed ones. It was leaking red blood from all it's new holes, like the other four eyes, but some curiosity at the back of his head told him to double check. He fumbled with the creature's helmet for a while, struggling with whatever locking mechanism held in place. Eventually, he gave up, drawing a hefty combat knife and sawing away at the tough material that covered its neck, drawing more blood from its pink flesh with each mechanical swipe. Finally coming loose, the Stormtrooper gives the helmet one last yank, snapping the chin of the helmet on the way.

The meat had a face staring back at him that had once belonged to a human.

* * *

Grelo Dras'pagan was having a really bad day.

Only moments ago, he was having a really good day. His crew had been borderline mutinous for the past few months. It had proven perhaps somewhat ambitious to try to fully crew the old Alliance frigate, and the minor spoils they plundered from the small time merchants bold enough to travel through the Terminus without enough firepower to fight him off wasn't enough to keep the crew in the requisite quantity of alcohol and narcotics to allow them to maintain what passed for discipline on a pirate ship.

The tip from one of his old friends out in the Abyss had sent him on a sector wide goose chase to head off a merchant ship that may or may not exist before it could make it to the relative safety of Omega. If he could, he'd be made for life. Of course, he didn't plan on his crew getting any of the loot. He'd just have some of his most loyal crewmates finish off some of the less important hangers on in exchange for a bigger cut, and then offer them a nice drink to toast a job well done. A drink spiked with enough STG poison to kill a Thresher Maw.

The heady musk of success, combined with an intense daydreaming session, forced the first mate to resort to shaking him to get his attention.

"GRELO!" The scarred Turian bellowed, only calming when the vacant sheen vanished from the captain's black eyes. "The damage repair team hasn't returned, and I tried to check the cameras but they're all dead. I'd wager that the Quarian did this, somehow."

"The Quarian?" Grelo stood, laughing boisterously as he took the Turian by the shoulder. "Listen, old friend, there's one Quarian, and a ship full of the hardest, meanest fighters in the whole Terminus!" He yelled, to be met with a round of jeered agreements from the crew. "You really worry too much. The repair team probably tripped over a loose cable."

"The cameras are dead." The Turian leaned in and whispered, easy enough to do given the current position the Batarian had him in. "This ship might be halfway to falling apart, but unless you hired Vorcha without me knowing, there shouldn't be enough damage to the ship to cause the cameras to go dead all at once." He stopped, and shook his head. "Have you heard from the away team recently?"

"We were talking to them just a minute ago." It was true, they had been in contact with the away team, though probably more than a minute ago. Time flew when everyone was busy figuring out how many yachts they could buy with their share. "Why, do you think they mutinied?"

The Turian shook his head. "No, I don't. They know just as well as we do that if they mutiny they'll be left to starve on that freighter. I think that the Quarian might've… done something. We should undock from the freighter."

"Don't be ridiculous. If you're so afraid, then go out there and check."

"You're making a mistake." The Turian warned as he broke out of the 'friendly' headlock and made for the exit.

Before he could open the door, it exploded inwards, throwing him off his feet and across the deck. In the doorway, shrouded in smoke, a glistening metal figure raised a weapon. Grelo cursed himself. His first mate was insufferable when he'd been vindicated, but at least the Quarian had killed most of his crew for him. It'd make it less suspicious when he had to poison the survivors. Reaching for the Katana stored to one side of his chair with a sneer, he realized only a moment too late that the figure in the doorway seemed a little tall to be a Quarian.

Then his head exploded.

* * *

Kenn heard a wet slap outside the door.

The sounds of fighting had pressed in from the back of the ship, thundering towards him at pace. He hoped beyond hope that maybe Terus and Panak had regrouped, and were throwing off the pirates, or that Eryx had summoned another burst of energy and used her biotics to shred them like some sort of furious, vengeful angel. Being reasonable, he knew that it was probably just a mutiny. They had more eezo on this ship than he'd ever seen in his entire time in the Migrant Fleet. Enough to buy a small moon, perhaps. No doubt that would spark a little bit of internal competition.

Hope wasn't really defined by being a rational response, though. He had wondered whether or not he should've gone to fight. He was a coward for running, leaving the one woman he'd ever loved, and who had ever loved him to the mercy of the pirates, he knew that. Hoping that somehow she'd fought them off, vindicating his choice to run, was comforting in a repulsive way. So he waited, listening to the ongoing sounds of combat with the same nausea that he felt while listening to the pirates discuss how they were going to break through the door.

Then he heard the wet slap. The sort of slap he remembered hearing in a fishmongers, on Eden Prime, before the Geth attack. A sound of meat being hacked, or impacting metal. He shuddered involuntarily when he went through the shortlist of the things that could make that noise, and conjured nothing pleasant. The sound of fighting suddenly stopped, replaced by the rhythmic clanking of metal on metal. His eyes went wide with fear as he listened closely. Could it be the Geth? ...No, no, none of the mechanical chittering noises that Geth made. Other than the clanking, the ship beyond was eerily silent. It being Geth would explain the buzzing and screeching he'd heard earlier, accompanying the normal crackling sound of mass accelerator rounds, so he wasn't going to still his heart just yet.

The rhythmic clanking comes to a stop outside his door. Placing his helmet as close as he could to the wall, he cradles his rifle against his chest while he tries to listen for any clues as to who's outside.

Without warning, the door buckles inwards under some massive force. The hull of the freighter rings like a bell as the shockwaves of the force reverberate around, loud enough to daze him. Inside his helmet, Kenn could swear that blood was running down what passed for ears amongst Quarians. Blinking rapidly as he regains his composure, he watches as a pair of silver gauntleted hands force their way through the new gaps between the two halves of the door. The locks had held against whatever had battered them, but they could only hold against so much.

The person behind them struggled with the door, and if Kenn could hear at the moment, he'd hear the pained screeching of metal as the door tried to hold off the assault. Kenn, still stunned, could've tried attacking the hands, or forced a tech-grenade through the gap, but fight or flight took over and for as little room as he had to run, flight had won. Scrambling backwards over Freddy's corpse to position himself against the controls of the freighter, he braced himself for whatever would come through the door.

The doors were grinded open inch by inch, giving Kenn ample time to focus his weapon's unsteady aim on the doorway. Slowly the creature invading the ship revealed itself. Taller than him by at least half a meter, the figure was at least as tall as Panak, though there was no mistaking the figure for a Krogan. It had a much lither frame than any Krogan he'd ever seen, and that was without considering armour, though it was still noticeably stockier than he was. It's armour was of no make that Kenn recognized. It was strangely angular and almost mirrored in the way that the ship's light played across its surface. Where it was marred by weapons fire, the surface gave way to dark black material that seemed significantly sturdier. The whole look gave the figure an almost insectoid look, even complete with a stubby triangular antenna poking from the side of his wide helmet that seemed to have been molded into a permanent scowl, though that might just be a side effect of the harsh angular geometry. In his hand a weapon that seemed to glow with an unhealthy blue light extended from his arm as though it were a natural extension of his very being.

The figure entered the room proper, with his weapon kept at a cautious ready state, he began to dispassionately observe the scene. A corpse, in a pool of its own blood. A Quarian, holding a rifle in it's shaky hands like a talisman to ward away evil spirits. The evil spirit in question was unphased with the Quarian's token resistance, and it was at that point that Kenn realized the creature's friends in the doorway, each with a similar weapon trained on his prone form. He let the gun fall limply from his hand. They dripped with multicoloured blood. They were either the most professional pirates he'd ever seen, about to cap off their mutiny with a good old fashioned execution, or they were the last fevered hallucinations of his dying brain after the pirates vented him out into space.

A cold gaze fell upon him, and he realized that the first creature was staring at him, and he mustered enough of what courage remained to look back. The thin blue visor almost certainly hid murderous intent, and Kenn braced himself for what was to come.

"Just… tell my family I-"

The creature offered it's hand.


	5. Lost In Translation

Kenn remained still, eyeing the offered hand suspiciously. Despite his obvious trepidation, the creature remained motionless, patiently waiting for him to accept, even as his compatriots in the doorway kept their rifles leveled at him. He had a feeling that they wouldn't hesitate to kill him if he tried anything, and that he probably wouldn't get anywhere by waiting for them to explain what was happening. He begrudgingly accepted the creature's hand.

With a sudden jolt that almost dislocated his arm, the creature latched onto his wrist and pulled him to his feet, leaving him scrambling till he could secure his footing. The creature that had pulled him up had stepped to one side, putting a respectful distance between itself and the Quarian, while the others in the doorway had lowered their rifles. "T-thanks…" Kenn stammered, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. The creatures didn't respond, though the one standing next to him cocked it's head to one side. Kenn still wasn't sure that they weren't some weird new Geth platform, but that certainly didn't seem like a synthetic gesture.

Kenn stood there awkwardly. They didn't seem to want to let him leave, but neither were they doing anything else with him. The silver creatures stood in silent vigil, waiting for something. Then, a sudden realization hit him like a thunderbolt. "Did… did you find any survivors? A asari?" Against his will, his legs quaked as he pleaded with the metal soldier. "She would've been fighting off the pirates, she…" He turned towards the others in the doorway. Behind them, the bodies of the pirates cooled on the deck. "She would've helped you fight the pirates, she wouldn't have… She wouldn't have gone down without a fight, she-" Kenn forced himself to stop. The creature simply cocked it's head again, offering no sign of interest beyond that one admission of confusion.

He almost sunk back to his knees in despair. Whatever these _things _were, they clearly didn't care about him. They didn't care about his friends. Keelah, they might have mistaken them for pirates and cut them down too. They may have never intended to save him, only keeping him alive so that they could torture him for information, or to lead him to some other horrid fate. Despite himself, his head turned towards the old rifle he'd abandoned on the floor, and a grim determination set itself on his face. If these creatures killed his love, and his friends, and intended to do the same to him, he'd sell his life dea-

Just as he considered how many of them he could take down if he dove for his rifle, there was a sudden flash of movement from the doorway as the silver creatures parted, flanking either side of the door and straightening to their full height, with weapons rigidly braced against their chests. From between them, a Human almost as tall as they were, dressed in multiple layers of blue fabric so dark you could mistake it for black and laid with golden trim emerged. Upon first glance, Kenn could almost mistake him for an officer of the Systems Alliance, but upon closer inspection the two were more dissimilar than they were similar. Where the Systems Alliance officer getup was sleek and functional, the newcomer's was billowy and layered. Kenn could see that the man had at least three different layers of heavy clothing, the outermost layer being the longest, coming down to just below his knee, and it was all bedecked with gold, down to the buttons and rope over his left shoulder.

Kenn was familiar enough with Humans to know that this was definitely a man, given his facial structure, though discerning anything specific about his frame was difficult, owing to the fact that he was half buried in his clothes. A crop of brown hair, kept neat and short against his scalp, was partially hidden under a large peaked cap of similar style to his other clothes. Besides that atop his head, no other facial hair obscured his relatively soft features, yet some could be concealed behind the respirator mask that was nestled into his collar. Kenn suspected that the man might be deathly ill, since despite his apparent youth he walked with all the grace of a pensioner and had a complexion paler than any Human he'd seen. At least, those without a terminal illness. Still, his veridian eyes were alight with curiosity, as they darted around to marvel at the old, battered freight hauler.

Behind him a woman dressed in the same outfit, though with noticeably less golden adornment and steadier gait followed behind him. She was older, if what he'd learnt about Humans on the extranet was true. Some of the colour was fading from her hair, and her features had gained a few extra lines. She seemed to be a little more cautious and reserved, not sharing her presumed superiors curiosity or excitement.

After the pair entered the room, paying the creatures no mind, the male Human strides up to the one beside Kenn, nudging the statue conspiratorially while his eyes scour the Quarian. "Is **** *** survivor?" Kenn's translation software buzzes in his ear over the male's half-whispered question. Kenn knew the humans had different languages, but he was surprised to hear just how different their languages sounded. Half of the words sounded almost like how Freddy spoke, but the other half was more guttural, and yet there was another element that made it sound almost… fluid, the words just running into one another. It wasn't like any language he'd ever heard a human speak, more like someone just smashed a bunch of different styles together into some abomination of a language designed to frighten outsiders. His translator didn't seem to like it either, as it point blank gave up translating some words.

"Yes, sir." The creature responds, clearly not having the same trouble understanding the human as he did. "** was *** only one." Kenn's heart sank. He didn't need to understand the other half of the sentence to know what was being communicated there.

"Unfortunate." The male clucked his tongue. "Any **** communicating with **?"

"No ******* was ****, sir." The creature said, it's voice echoing strangely through it's helmet. Another sudden realization came to Kenn: The Human likely didn't have any sort of communicator software! That would explain why they didn't understand what he was asking. Maybe the human's… what, soldiers? Maybe they were unable to communicate with the other crew members, and Eryx and the others hid in one of the storage bays, waiting until the pirates left? You could easily hide a person in one of those, especially with all the eezo stacked up everywhere, and it's not as though they'd come out once they heard the fighting start. There was still a chance that his friends might be alive!

Kenn pulled up his omnitool, which seemed to give the Humans and their allies a scare, as they all collectively took a step back from him. Holding his hands out in an attempt to show he meant no harm, Kenn flicks through the different options on his omnitool's translation package. Seemingly the display was understood, as the human male takes another step forward, leaning in to get a better look at what Kenn was doing. It didn't take Kenn too long to set his omnitool to speaker mode, though it took a little longer for him to select one of the pre-programmed human languages to use. The translation software struggled to keep up with these humans, constantly cycling between English, German, and a handful of other languages whose names he barely recognized from some long forgotten documentary vid he'd watched on Human cultures.

Eventually settling on English, he clears his throat and speaks as calmly as he could muster: "Did you find anyone else alive on the ship? Other than the pirates, I mean I don't really care about them, but… an Asari… and…" Kenn trailed off, partly because he realized he was starting to trip over his words, and partly because the Human seemed to be about to jump out of his own skin.

"You…" The male's eyes were wide, and the female behind him had unconsciously reached for her pistol. "The… ah, the… orange." He speaks slowly and uncomfortably, as though unused to the language he was speaking, though the translator had noticeably less through understanding what he was saying. "The orange speaks... Speaks Human?"

Kenn nods slowly. He was fairly sure that the Human infront of him wasn't stupid, but it never hurt to exagerrate expressions when there was some language trouble. He did wonder why these humans didn't have translators, and seemed to be downright surprised at the very concept, though he had plenty more pressing questions for them. "Yes, it's just my omnitool, I have my translation software loaded onto it. Did you find any other survivors? My… My friends?"

The male takes a step back, clearly unsatisfied with the answer. He shares a quick glance with the silver creature, who shakes his head back. "No. There were… no more living on the ship. Just you, and pirates." Kenn clenched his jaw as hard as he could. He wanted to scream, or cry, or throw himself out of the airlock. Maybe all of the above at once. A few deep breaths remedied that. In truth, he knew he was only fooling himself by imagining that anyone else had survived, setting himself up for more pain in the process. He hadn't come to terms with it, and probably wouldn't for many, many years, but he wouldn't scream, or throw himself out of the airlock. The Humans wouldn't notice if he cried, though. "My… condolences." The male says, removing his hat.

"T-thank you." Kenn replied breathlessly, hoping that the translator didn't carry over the sounds of muffled sobs. "I… I should… The bodies." He weakly gestures towards Freddy's corpse. "Something. A… A funeral or…"

The male replaces his hat and nods, motioning to two of the silver ones. "These Stormtroopers help. Find bodies. Move bodies. We wait."

Kenn was ready to turn down his offer, before realizing that the Human wasn't making the offer solely out of politeness. He didn't want Kenn running for it, and these _Stormtroopers _that the Human spoke of had cleaved through an entire ship's worth of pirates. He didn't know how many of them there were, or if they'd used some trick to take out some of them, but it was a fairly safe bet to assume that they weren't going to be pushovers. With two of them hovering over his shoulder at all times, he wasn't going anywhere they didn't want him going.

Kenn nods silently, and gets to work.

* * *

It was a funeral of sorts. Panak and Terus were filled with shrapnel, having caught the brunt of the grenades without barriers, but they were still mostly intact. Panak had received a few shots to the head post-mortem. Kenn would've chalked it up to pirates desecrating corpses, if it hadn't been a smart choice - Krogans did have a tendency to get back up after dying. Freddy had a hole through his heart. The round had cracked a few ribs on the way out, but he was mostly intact. There was nothing left of the captain. Literally. He'd been shot near the back of the ship, where he'd been hiding since the boarding began. He didn't blame him. After all, one shot caused him to explode. He had the Stormtroopers pick up what was left of him and place it on a stretcher. It was the least he could do.

Eryx. He wouldn't be able to forget her face, he knew that, but now every time he thought of her he had to remember her like that. She looked almost serene, if it weren't for the trickle of purple blood trailing from the corner of her mouth. Another few small puddles of purple on her abdomen and chest belied the wounds underneath. He could take some small comfort that she'd died quickly.

He had thought that he would be able to keep his composure throughout it all, but the instant he caught sight of her body and semblance of composure he had collapsed in an instant. Crumpling onto the floor he bawled and shrieked like a child between incoherent mumblings and prayers. His chaperones offered comfort, merely standing guard over their charge even as he blubbered on the ground. He'd picked himself up that time.

Now standing just outside the airlock, where he'd asked the Stormtroopers to take the bodies (Though he'd carried Eryx himself. He wouldn't let them touch her.) before wrapping them in some of the white linen from the bathroom. It was simple, but it was the best he could do for them under the circumstances. In his hand, he held a simple silver chain set with a tiny chunk of eezo. It had been Eryx's, given to her by her mother when she first left for the stars. She'd told him that once, though he'd forgotten when.

It had called to him when he was preparing her body. He intended to leave it as it was, as she had been. To pocket their belongings would've been disrespectful in the extreme, but he wasn't willing to totally part with her. Maybe he'd give it back to her mother. Maybe he'd keep it as a memento. He wasn't really sure. His knees threatened to give again.

He didn't know any words to speak, or benedictions to give. He wasn't a priest, or a shaman, or whatever else. He was just a Quarian burying the bodies of all his friends in the entire galaxy while surrounded by Humans who didn't know a single one of them. He didn't need to say any words. Taking one last look through the airlock door, he hesitates with his hand over the vent button for a moment. "_Esu se'lai_." He murmurs, drowned out by the hiss of the airlock door cracking open, sending linen wrapped bodies drifting out into space. He watched them float for a while, drifting serenely through space as though there was nothing wrong in the world. He almost envied them.

After a few minutes, he turned from the airlock and walked back into the bridge, where the two Humans and their entourage were waiting in the dim light, as they had said they would be. Kenn walked in, coming to a slow stop in the center of the room.

"Done?" The male asked as he pushed off from the wall which he'd been leaning on.

"Yes." Kenn replied. "Done."

The male nodded. "Good. I am Captain fox." He gestured towards himself. "This Captain Rowley." He gestured towards his female companion.

"Captain Fox and Captain Rowley." He nods in understanding. "I'm Kenn'Dannah nar Rayya. Call me Kenn."

The male, presumably Fox, frowns. "No, no. Not Fox, _Fox._" He struggles, and the translator blips again, flicking between languages. Noticing that the actual words that the male was saying weren't the same, he pulls up his omnitool again, and tells it to stop auto-translating, and to only translate English, having gathered that the name was clearly not to be translated. Gesturing for the male to try again, he obliges. "Not Fox, _Fuchs._ Different words."

"I figured." Kenn rubs the back of his neck. "So… I guess I should thank you?"

"Nothing." Fuchs says with a shrug. "Few wounded. No dead. Mission successful."

"Oh. Good." He wrung his hands as he tried to figure out how to articulate some of his questions, but Fuchs stepped in first.

"Where are we?"

That took Kenn by surprise. "I… the Nemean Abyss. Are your computers broken? I could fix them for you."

Fuchs inhales and rubs his temple. "No. Not broken. Where is the Nemean Abyss?"

This too took Kenn by surprise. They must've had a ship, and one capable of getting the drop on the pirates, yet they didn't know where the Nemean Abyss was? "In the Terminus Systems."

He looked at the floor, then back up again. "Where is the Terminus Systems?"

"You… don't know where the Terminus Systems are?"

Fuchs goes silent at this. "Explain later." He declares after a while. "Aliens, on ship. You, blue one, bird one, big lizard, four eyes, and exploded. Who are? And with human?"

"You don't know who any of the races are?" Kenn shook his head, that was just too ridiculous. "You don't even have a codex?"

"No." He looks thoughtful for a moment. "What is codex?"

"Wh- What? How do you not know what any of this is?" He chuckles to himself, despite how awful and weird this day had turned out. "What, this your first time in the galaxy?"

Fuchs and Rowley exchange a glance that was terrifying in its seriousness. "Maybe." He decides. "Not sure."

Kenn scans Fuchs' face for any sign of levity, though none was to be found. He wasn't just playing along with the joke. "You can't be serious, right?"

"Not sure." He repeats, firmly. "Not sure where we are. Need a map."

"How can you be unsure? You'd notice if you got lost in a different galaxy, right?"

"Explain later. Long story." He says with a sigh. "Map." He demands.

"Er… sure. I can pull one up on my omnitool. One sec." Complying with the strange Human's demands, he orders the ship to pull up it's galaxy map through his omnitool. The soft blue-white glow of the galaxy springs into existence as the rarely-used holoprojectors spool up and summon a simplified map of the galaxy for Fuchs to see. This almost took him by surprise, but he was seemingly no stranger to similar systems. A look of recognition flashed across his face the instant the map filled itself in. "We're over here." Kenn pointed at the Nemean Abyss. "Citadel's here-ish, and Systems Alliance space is way over there, on the other side of the core."

Fuchs had stopped paying attention, and was now busy trying to bury his face into his hands, while Rowley was just shaking her head while quietly muttering to herself. "Sure now." Fuchs suddenly announced. "Lost in a different galaxy."

"H-how?" Kenn chastised himself for even believing these weird aliens with their stilted speech and silver guardians. Sure, they were weird, but nothing he'd seen so far implied they were extra-galactic. "How would humans end up in another galaxy? How did you get back? Why did you save me? Why didn't you get here sooner? Why didn't you save h-" He stopped himself, the torrent of questions suddenly cut off as he remembered where he was.

"Long story. Faster than light drive. Complicated science. Not understood. Gone wrong. Here now." He explained, summing up the events of the previous four chapters. "I hate pirates. Helped as soon as we were able." Fuchs continued, only half lying.

"I see." Kenn lied. "Well, that… I don't know if I believe you, to be honest."

"Understandable. I wouldn't believe him either." Rowley spoke up, her English a little better than Fuchs'.

"Yes. Understandable." He repeats the word, sounding it out syllable by syllable. "I have more questions." He jumps up and down demonstratively. "How?"

"How can you jump?"

"No, how do I come back down?"

It took Kenn a while to parse the exact meaning of that question. If they really were from another galaxy, bereft of Prothean artefacts, it was entirely possible that they didn't know of eezo, or mass effect. Artificial gravity would seem like magic. "It's complicated. I can send the relevant entries in the codex to you in English, if you have the computers you'd need to receive them?"

"That would be good, yes. More questions." He jerks his head towards the bridge window, and the relay outside, barely visible in the distance. "Big thing, with a glowy core. What is it?"

"That's a relay." Kenn supposed that questions like this shouldn't surprise him, if what they were saying was true, but he wasn't about to sit here and explain every single facet of the galaxy to them. "It allows ships to travel faster than light. I can send you a codex entry on that too, if you'd like."

"Good too. How to use relay?" This question came with a little bit of urgency, and Kenn began to put the pieces together in his head. If they really did come here from another galaxy with some sort of FTL drive, then it probably wasn't a standard eezo drive core. Not to mention that he seemed to have no knowledge of eezo based artificial gravity or relays. If something had gone wrong with their FTL system, it was entirely possible that they couldn't actually go FTL at the moment, which would leave them stranded in the system. He could be wrong, of course, but it bore keeping in mind. These Humans seemed friendly enough as it was, and they certainly had the ability to kill him if they wanted, but he wasn't about to trust the potentially extra-galactic aliens with his life if it could be avoided.

"You'd need an eezo drive, and the right codes to talk to the relay. Eezo drive'll let you go FTL, but still pretty slow compared to how fast relays shoot you. Travel between them is almost instant." Kenn formed some sort of plan at the back of his head. They might seem friendly now, but they could screw him once they were done pumping him for information.

"How to get an eezo drive and codes?" Bingo, just the question he was looking for.

"I can lift the codes from this ship easy enough. If the pirates' ship is still intact, I could salvage the core from theirs. Not sure how big your ship is, but frigates generally have a pretty big drive, so it should be enough to get us to the relay. If you wanted something custom made, I know just the people for the job, though."

"Who?"

"My people, the Quarians. Best engineers in the galaxy." Fuchs frowned at this, but Kenn continued on. "This ship is filled with eezo. It's valuable stuff, you need it for making all the stuff I just talked about. If I let you have, say…" Kenn paused. He wasn't exactly sure what figure to give them. They had saved his life and all that, and he could easily give up the crew's share without missing a credit, but it felt wrong to give away his dead friends' share to these aliens. On the other hand, if he had lied to them about how much of it actually belonged to him, would he be as bad as the aliens who'd ripped him off on the Citadel? Probably not, right? "Two thirds, that'd be enough to pay for everything you'd need to outfit even a dreadnought, with some left over."

"Generous." Fuchs notes, eyes slightly narrowed though tone gracious. If he harboured any severe suspicions, he hid them well.

"You did save my life, and you'd be giving me a ride for the trouble. I think that's worth some eezo."

"How long would it take?"

"A few days at most. Depends how shoddy the pirates engineering work is. _Pirates._" Kenn spits with a grimace.

"How often do people pass by?" Again, a slight urgency to his voice. He probably didn't want to be found, which was sensible in the Terminus, but he didn't even know what that meant five minutes ago, so there was clearly something else to this.

"Once a day or so, I think? We don't come in here often. I know it's not a busy relay though."

"Not good. We tow the ships. How far till too far to see?" He asks, supplementing his jilted wording by miming someone looking around.

"A long way. Too far to bother looking closer, though, we could manage easy enough. Pirates won't get too close to a frigate, so even the other ship would scare them off. Still don't know what you've got, though."

Fuchs' expression becomes a strange mix of pride, embarrassment, and terror. "Dreadnought. One kilometer."

"You… brought a dreadnought? A kilometer long dreadnought?"

"Yes." He winces as though in pain. "Too big?"

"To hide? Much too big. It'll keep the pirates away, but don't expect to keep a low profile."

Rowley stares daggers at Fuchs, who tries to pretend that he can't see her. "I see."

"So… do you want me to get started, or-"

"Are you injured?" Rowley interjects.

"I… No, I don't think so, why do you ask?"

"Because it looks like you're about to fall over."

Kenn suddenly becomes aware of the fact that he had been bracing himself against the wall, and that his legs were indeed threatening to fall out from beneath him. "Oh, right. Sorry, it's been a difficult day. A lot's happened." The voice that escaped him seemed a little more vacant than he'd been aiming for.

"Seems like an understatement. My condolences for your friends. We would've joined you, but… well, we worried that it might be disrespectful."

"No, it would've… er… Don't worry about it."

"Pirates are scum. Your friends went down fighting by the looks of it. They were surrounded by dead pirates before our men even boarded. I know it doesn't bring them back, but you should be proud. They took some out with them. No-one can ask for better."

"_Keelah se'lai_." Kenn replied automatically. He took in a deep breath. "I think I need to go to sleep."

"We have beds on our ship. We can give you a tour in the morning. It's probably best that you don't sleep here." She looked to Fuchs, and presumably asked for permission in that odd language they used. Having received approval, she looks Kenn up and down. "Do you require special conditions, or is the suit a cultural matter?"

"It's a long story."


	6. Battle For Humanity's Soul!

Fuchs rattled the plastic bottle while he swallowed two of the pills from inside. A quick trip to the med bay before bed led to a shouting match after the doctor had become apoplectic upon hearing that Rowley and Fuchs had boarded an alien spacecraft without anything but the most rudimentary environmental protection. The two had tried to argue that the Stormtroopers had already cleared the ship, but he was having none of it.

"_There was already a human aboard?! Who knows what sort of horrid new diseases they could have? You could already be infected! If you weren't the Captain I'd have you quarantined in the airlock for the rest of the deployment, but we'll just have to cross our fingers and hope that our antivirals and antibiotics will do the job." The doctor harrumphed and glared at him. "If you start a new plague, I'll beat you to death myself."_

It was probably the first time that a direct subordinate had ever personally threatened to kill him, but he was too shocked to threaten the doctor with brig time. That, and he was probably right. Slipping the bottle back into his long coat, he grabbed the railing beside the CIC door before he floated on by, and headed inside.

"Good morning, everyone. I trust that you all slept well?" He greeted his command staff as he drifted towards the table in the center of the room. "I know I didn't."

In combat, they'd all be seated, but with the ship currently 'stationary' there wasn't much of a need for the usual restraints. Instead, the chairs had been folded away to make more room for the small crowd that floated around the table. They'd gone quiet the moment he'd entered, but he'd heard the heated discussion from outside, which was impressive given that the CIC was supposed to be soundproofed.

"Sir." Rowley nods in acknowledgement. "We were just discussing the matter of our guest."

"Aye, and his offer to rip our ship apart." Haynes shook his head violently. "The little imp. I hope you didn't sign anything, captain, though I suppose no-one would know if we dropped it into the sun."

"The logistics of actually dropping anything into the sun aside, we've been astoundingly lucky to end up with someone who might be able to get us out of this system. Were it not for him, we'd have no idea where we are. We might end up wandering around aimlessly until we all starve. You really want to throw a gift horse into the sun?" Brooks sputtered dismissively. "Don't be so quick to shit on everything, Haynes."

"How would you like it if some alien was given free run over _your _domain, eh? Bet you'd have it in the sun before it could blink." Haynes folded his arms aggressively, and turned on Fuchs. "With respect, I won't have him near my engine deck if I can help it. Who knows what that thing might have planned?"

"Haynes is right. I'm not even happy with that thing bein' on the ship, let alone near anything… sensitive, sir." Summer seemed to have only a vague, transient interest in proceedings, going so far as to put as much distance between herself and the other combatants, leaving her resting against the wall at the back of the room. "It's guarded, though, so if it tries anythin' funny a stormtrooper'll kill it with the shattered remains of its own femur."

"Specifically the femur? Does it even have a femur?" Fuchs asks.

Summer only shrugs in response.

"Regardless, I feel the need to remind everyone that we do actually have laws governing how we're expected to act in a first contact scenario, and that we have broken every single one of them." Rowley pulled herself towards the table, and bade a projector in the center to pull up a display. The same flickering blue lights appeared for a moment before coalescing into long lists of various different decrees handed down by the Directorate, duplicated on each cardinal face for ease of reading. "The only reason I didn't invoke emergency protocols is because the Captain was ultimately quite right when he said the situation had changed, but we now need to discuss the matter of the legality of our actions." Her face was stony.

Fuchs had been briefed on it as every officer was. The possibility of first contact was distant, but realistic, and the highest officer in command had the mandate to carry out rather… extreme action. In fact, he was _obligated _to carry out certain extreme actions. The foremost xenoanthropologists of the era had argued in circles for years about the veracity of the assumptions made, but being a theoretical field none had been able to conclusively prove anything.

The Directorate asserted that three main tenants should inform Hyperion's response to the presence of alien life:

Assume selfishness. Competition was the natural order of life on Earth, and it would be difficult to imagine life evolving naturally without competition. Ergo, it would be wise to assume that the most successful life of a planet would place the survival of their race over the survival of another.

Assume capability. No race survives without the capability to defend itself. A potential alien threat will continue to develop those abilities, and will likely be no strangers to using them. The weapons of a spacefaring species would have the potential to wipe out a planet's biosphere with almost casual ease.

Assume awareness. If we predict the above, it is reasonable to assume that any potential alien race would, in turn, assume the same of us.

This leads to a paradigm wherein a catastrophic first strike is not only the wisest course and most rational course of action, but the only rational course of action at all. Failure to adopt this stance would allow a civilization that does to annihilate you wholesale before an appropriate response could be mustered.

In short, do unto others before they can do unto you.

It wasn't a new concept, no. Similar sentiments had been expressed pre-jump, though armed with the knowledge that faster than light travel was possible, it gained an edge of legitimate concern.

Thus, first contact protocol dictated that no information should be shared with a potential enemy, that no details of technology, military disposition, or navigational data be made available. Much of the Hyperion internet had classified what would otherwise be publicly available information for this very reason, and if there was any possibility of potential enemies learning of this information, officers were required to take any action necessary, up to and including orbital bombardment, to prevent that information being disseminated. If the potential enemy made information about their primary worlds and orbital facilities available, officers were empowered to effectively commit genocide if they thought they could get away with it.

It was extreme, yes, but up until yesterday Fuchs had no reason to disagree with the assessment the Directorate had made. He'd never met an alien. But here they were, in a different galaxy with an alien aboard their ship. The situation had changed, and those tenants no longer held up under scrutiny. Different alien races working together with humans, even if they happened to be pirates, was proof enough that there was some fundamental flaw with those assertions.

"I think everyone can agree that what has happened over the past 24 hours has been utterly unprecedented. I very much doubt that we'll be put before a court upon our return, unless we severely screw up, so the legality of it doesn't really have any bearing on the discussion." Fuchs counters. "That aside, I believe that we have kept our secrets close to our chest. Nothing we've told him could aid his people if they chose to launch an attack on either ourselves or Hyperion."

"If he meddles in the engine deck he'll know everything he needs to, whether we tell him or not." Haynes grumbled.

"Your objections were noted the first time, Lieutenant." Fuchs rolls his eyes. "But unless you have some working knowledge of the pirate's FTL drive, I'm afraid that we're fresh out of alternatives."

Haynes' frown deepens a few inches. "We could have a bash at it."

"How long do you think that would take? A few days? A week? A month? Our guest is confident that he could have it done within a few days, and we need every second we can."

"Why? We aren't in any risk, right? AI cut through the pirate's cyber defenses like -" Summer mimes a karate chop, complete with sound effects. "Same would happen to anyone who turned up to pick a fight."

"Not necessarily." Brooks cuts in. "We got lucky with the pirates. They had basically no defences, and their underlying systems were apparently still mostly human technology, even if they changed up all the languages. That made it far easier to crack, and while the device provided to us by our guest has gone a ways to giving us an insight into the other local computer systems, it's unlikely that anything we learnt from either of those examples would give us an advantage if we were dealing with military-grade systems. Frankly, they could point blank shut us out once they realized what was happening. It seems like cyberwarfare isn't as common here as it is back home, though, so we won't know for sure until we actually make contact with military-grade systems."

"That, and the longer we stay here the more people will know about us. For now, I'd like that to be kept at an absolute minimum. We're a complete unknown. I'm not sure what sort of response our presence would muster - apparently this place is fairly lawless - but I'd rather not take chances." Fuchs continues. "That aside, you and me both know that it could take a damned long time for you to figure this system out. Regardless of where we go from here, it seems pretty obvious to me that we're going to need our guest's help to get out of this system."

Haynes frowned even harder, but seemingly accepted the captain's orders without further contest.

"About that: He mentioned something about his people helping refit the ship. I'm not fully convinced of the need for that, and it would seem to be a gross risk. At the moment we can assume that he won't be attempting some sabotage, given that he's aboard our ship too, but that'd change if we're going to be docking with one of their facilities. The element of risk disappears." Rowely continues airing her concerns with all the tact of a sledgehammer.

"Oh, actually I took a look through the 'codex' he gave us. After scanning it for anything nasty, I've managed to get a rough translation that should be a little easier on the eyes. I know not everyone paid attention in English class." Brooks winked mischievously at Fuchs.

"You know I'm from Kepler, right? The hell would I need to speak English for? It's a dead language anyway." He protests.

"Excuses excuses. I think you'll find it's a little easier to read now, though to save on time I prepared a few dossiers on some of the more interesting facets of the galaxy we find ourselves in, and forwarded them to all your terminals. You'll forgive me for editorializing Summer, but I didn't send you anything that wasn't weapons related. Didn't want to give you a headache." Brooks says through a wide grin.

"You're forgiven, but make a joke like that again and you'll have a lot more trouble laughing when you've got no teeth."

"Anyway, where was I? Oh, right. So, Kenn's from a race known as the 'Quarians'. They seem to be galactic outcasts after they made AI and got booted off their own home planet by them."

"Wait, really? They full on got kicked off their planet?" Summer floats forwards with renewed interest.

"Yeah, but that's only half the story, because afterwards the 'Council', who're some sort of multi-species government, basically exiled the Quarians again. It's been a few hundred years since then, and they've not settled down since. That's why they all wear the suits. Their immune systems are terrible because of being born on spacecraft, or something." Brooks elaborates.

"That's it?" Fuchs shakes his head. "You'd think that they'd figure something out in all that time."

"I don't imagine we're getting the full picture from the codex entry. It's an encyclopedia, not a full intel report."

"Right. How is this relevant to the question of whether or not we enlist their help to actually make this ship FTL capable without jury rigging a junked pirate drive to it?"

"Well, we're worried about information quarantine, right?" Brooks looks around the room, and receives a handful of somewhat confused nods. "Well, these guys aren't too close with the local authorities. I think there's a good chance that if we just ask politely, they might keep it on the down low."

"Seriously? We're staking the fate of Hyperion on the goodwill of aliens?" Rowley asked, halfway to furious.

"Not the fate of Hyperion, no need to be dramatic. They have no way of getting there, best we can tell. Their FTL doesn't allow them to cross intergalactic distances. Theoretically, neither does ours, but you know. We're staking our own fates on it, and I don't see any better options."

"Captain, I think it's high time we decide what the hell it is we're even trying to do here." Rowley suddenly spins towards Fuchs, eyes locking onto his. "Thus far we've been acting on immediate impulse, and I can respect that, but here we're at an impasse. Our original goal was to test the drive and return to Hyperion. That may or may not be possible now." Sensing Haynes open his mouth, she turns her gaze on his to quickly silence him, before continuing. "We need a long term plan, or the rest of the crew are going to mutiny. If we're going to continue efforts to return home, we need to start working on a plan, and if not, then we need to figure out something else. We can only operate without resupply for so long."

The rest of the crew went silent, and all eyes turned on Fuchs. This was what he had been fearing. He very much liked acting on immediate impulse because it meant that he didn't need a long term plan. Long term plans weren't his wheelhouse. Then he realized that there was a second layer to the question that Rowley had put to him, and she was nice enough to conceal it behind something else.

She wanted him to step down as captain.

That had been exactly what he had wanted, and she had to have known it. He knew that she was more competent, and that he was out of his depth, but over the past few days a number of doubts had formed. She might've been competent, but she was dogmatic. An inflexible stickler for the rules. That would've worked well if this were a routine operation, and everything had gone to plan, but it wasn't and it hadn't. Things had gone well and truly off the rails, and the possibility that they may never see Hyperion again had begun to sink in.

They felt no kinship with the humans of Earth, the ties that bound them in brotherhood had been separated in one of the bloodiest wars in their history, where Hyperion declared that it's only allegiance was to itself, and to the future. The crew would likely be violently opposed to integration with whatever was left of the Earth's humanity, but they weren't the _Prometheus_. They couldn't just throw down a colony and start over. They had a few thousand men and women and a dreadnought.

Would Rowley demand that they led a one-ship crusade into the jaws of the aliens, as the law demanded? Even if she showed flexibility, she could doom them through isolation, and that was assuming that she didn't throw all their remaining resources into gambling with the drive that had accidentally launched the ship it was attached to into another galaxy not once but _twice._

He weighed his words carefully. "This is the second time that the drive has launched people into an entirely different galaxy. Even assuming we could repair it, I don't think that we could guarantee that we'd end up anywhere near Hyperion. We got lucky that we just so happened to drop into the situation that we did, and I'm not about to gamble that away on the possibility that we might be able to go home. To be clear, I'm not abandoning that as something worth investigating, but it's obviously not a sure thing, so we can't treat it like it is. For the moment, we want to focus on securing ourselves in this galaxy. A source of food and other essential supplies is high on our list of priorities, and if we can get our hands on functional 'eezo' based technology, we could make this little adventure significantly easier on both ourselves and our crew."

"That doesn't answer the question." Rowley interjects. "What exactly are we going to be doing here but living day to day? If you don't have an answer, the-"

It was Fuchs' turn to interrupt. "I don't think _anyone_ has an answer to that question. We're newcomers, with no obligations. For a while, we'll have to live day to day." He pauses, and looks at what was currently the ceiling. "I guess it might be nice to set up a colony, or something?"

Rowley starts to speak, but Brooks opens up before she can. "Better idea than any I've had today. We've got a unique edge here, too. Our tech isn't strictly superior, but it is different. We have advantages in some fields, them in others. What we do have, though, is a much easier time hiding our hand than they do. If we capitalize on that edge, we could carve a niche out for ourselves in this galaxy."

"Yeah, if those pirates are anything to go by, I'd say their gear has some nice tricks, but it's nothing that we couldn't do better if we knew how it worked. Plus, they die real easy, so we ain't got much to worry about on that front." Summer offers.

"I don't think we can extrapolate the combat effectiveness of pirates to the rest of the galaxy, Summer."

"Whatever, Brooks."

"... That being said, for the moment we'll keep a low profile. Keep our heads down. We'll take up Kenn's offer, both with regards to the temporary and permanent solution to our lacking FTL department. That, and it would be very nice to be able to walk around rather than float."

That sentiment receives unanimous approval.

"Captain, you do realize the amount of work that'd take? I don't think my staff could handle it all."

"I'm aware. It sounded like these Quarians would be doing most of the heavy lifting, though."

Haynes grumbled to himself some more. "That's not good, captain, not good at all."

"Again, if you can come to me with complete confidence in that drive, I'll- Well, I was going to say I might take that suggestion seriously, but you were completely confident in the drive last time, and yet we're _still in another galaxy._" Fuchs parried.

"I told you, that wasn't our fault, captain. I'm sure that if we could get if functional again, we'd have a good chance of getting ourselves back home." Haynes stood his ground.

"We'll investigate that possibility, but for now this seems like the safest option. Work with Kenn. Get us moving as soon as we can." Fuchs starts to say something else, but then adds: "That's an order, Haynes."

Haynes gives one of his characteristic grumbles, but salutes and gives a quick "Aye, sir." all the same.

Fuchs waits till Haynes is safely out of range before sighing deeply. "Alright, with that dealt with, Summer, I want you focusing on testing any salvaged weapons and armour. Those pirates may not be on the top of their game, but I still need to know what we're dealing with on the lower end. Brooks… Just keep doing what you're doing. I want dossiers on _everything _in that codex made available to anyone who needs that information. Oh, and get anything out of their low level systems that you can."

Summer and Brooks likewise salute, acknowledge the order, and set off, though with far less grumbling than Haynes. This leaves only Fuchs and Rowley in the CIC, and neither seemed willing to speak first, even as the sound of the other officers bickering faded down the corridor.

Rowley was the first to break. "I hope you know what you're doing, Fuchs." She asked, the air of professionalism she maintained seeming to dissolve with each passing word. The pressure evident in even the tone of her voice deflated out of her with a long sigh. "We _need _something to keep people going here. Most of the crew don't know the magnitude of our fuck up, and I dread what'll happen when they find out, either by announcement or rumour."

"I know." He replies quietly. "But what am I supposed to do here? The colony thing is the best idea I had, and it's a damn sight better than following the letter of the law to our untimely graves, that's for sure."

"I never suggested that we did."

"You didn't need to." He pulls himself towards the table, and turns off the hologram. "I don't know if I'm the best person for this job, Rowley. I know why I made commodore, though, and why I'm captain of this ship. I'm not proud of it, but it is what it is. I still think I made the right call yesterday, and I don't think it would've been the call that you made."

Rowley looks away.

"You're right, though. If I'd had my way we'd probably spend the next month wandering aimlessly until the crew mutinies. I know why they made me captain, just as I know why they made you XO." He stops to consider the next few words again, before visibly giving up. "You stop me from getting everyone killed, and I'll do the same for you, alright?"

For a moment, Fuchs thought she was going to draw her gun and shoot him dead, but then her face softened, and a half-smile appeared. "Sounds good to me."

* * *

The salvage operation was going as well as could reasonably be expected. Moving the eezo out of the freighter had been easy, given that it was already packaged and ready to move, though Kenn did feel a little bad seeing exactly how much was being marked as belonging to him personally, then felt a little better after seeing how much was going to the humans.

What he hadn't expected was exactly how dense this weird human ship actually was. For one, the sleeping quarters were even worse than in the Fleet. For as bad as it could get, you generally didn't have to share bunks, but apparently that was a very real possibility on this ship. He was to consider himself lucky that he was on a ship that had a shower room, not that he could make use of it given that it was about as far from sterile as you could get without it being covered in mould.

The density of the ship posed a second problem with regards to actually mounting the drive anywhere in the ship, as actually finding a place to put it and then getting it there posed a serious challenge. He'd mostly become accustomed to it's strange design and massive size over the past few days, though something he'd never be able to wrap his head around was the precision with which everything in the ship was engineered. In the Fleet, you had to make do and mend with whatever worked, and on merchant haulers you didn't need to squeeze every last half percent of additional acceleration out of an engine. To see a ship that didn't have a single gram of material out of alignment was a bit of a culture shock.

Even without eezo, their dreadnought had the maneuverability of a cruiser, capable of accelerating at rates that would render the crew temporarily unconscious. The flip side of that was that a large portion of their oversized reactor's power output went straight to the engines. Back of the napkin calculations seemed to indicate that even with a mass effect field lowering the… effective mass of the ship, they wouldn't actually maneuver much faster than they had been able to before, though the inertial damping would come in handy. He dreaded to think what the crew had to go through in combat.

The ship was about as powerful as any cutting edge dreadnought that Kenn could imagine, though it had plenty of tricks still up its sleeve, that was for sure. The human engineers refused him access to certain parts of the ship, citing that it didn't have anything to do with the drive. They were right, of course, but the quarian affinity for technology drove his curiosity. Cursory observation indicated that there were some sort of concealed weapon bays along the ship's dorsal hull, and what seemed to be fighter launch bays of the kind that the Systems Alliance seemed to like so much arranged horizontally along the bottom of the ship. The only thing he'd seen come out were a few simple drones to assist with loading the eezo onto the ship, so they were sure to have something good down there.

If he had to deliver an overall assessment of the ship, he'd say that it was definitely focused on long range combat. The maneuverability and relatively light armour spoke of an affinity for hit and run strikes, or skirmishing, rather than the sluggish behemoths that ships of its size usually became. Still, Kenn couldn't really pass judgement without having seen it actually fight. Given that it hadn't even fought the pirate frigate, and had instead deployed a boarding team, he was deprived of the opportunity to even inspect battle damage.

Melancholy was what he was what he was trying to avoid by throwing himself into his work, so he ignored the missed opportunities and simply got on with it.

The ship's engineers were quick enough, and experienced in their own matters, but Kenn could tell that they had absolutely no idea what they were doing with eezo. He would admit to taking a small amount of childish pride in professionally trained engineers coming up to him for advice, but who'd blame him? The situation wasn't likely to come up again.

Kenn was left wondering about the future, though. He tried to avoid thinking too much about it, but his life had been left in tatters after the events of the past week, and he couldn't _stop_ thinking about it. He felt restless. Could he just return to the Fleet so easily? He'd become accustomed to the life he'd been leading. Of an engineer, traveling to different places here and there. He supposed that the Migrant Fleet did move around a lot (the clue was in the name), but there was still this feeling of being sedentary. He didn't realize it before, probably because he had never known any different, but there was some strange sense of being static. Stuck in the tight liveships, rarely interacting with any non-quarians. Could he live like that again?

Wanderlust tugged at his heart, but he supposed that he could at least wait to see this weird chapter of his life through before he considered whether or not he'd let it take him.


	7. The Migrant Fleet

Over the days it took for Kenn to fit the pirate's mass effect generator in the human dreadnought, he'd gotten to know a few of the various different officers on the ship. The Chief Engineer, Haynes, didn't like him much, or more accurately didn't like what he was. That was all fine and dandy with Kenn, because he didn't really like Haynes much either. The man snubbed him at every available opportunity, and went out of his way to exclude Kenn from important discussions on the installation on the drive. He couldn't tell if this was just stubbornness, pride, or protectiveness, but he didn't care to find out.

Rowley, the XO, was a little nicer, though very formal. She didn't really speak to Kenn all that much, save for ensuring that he had everything he needed, and that Haynes wasn't being overly obstructive. It all seemed very performative to Kenn, though, like she was doing all of that out of a sense of obligation rather than legitimate concern. Perhaps 'polite' was more accurate than 'nice'.

Fuchs was a strange character. He seemed to struggle with the English language that they'd defaulted to in conversations, and though Kenn assumed that he was competent (else how would he have made it to becoming the captain of a warship this big), the translation software gave off the exact opposite impression. Kenn didn't really like talking to Fuchs, not because he was particularly mean or anything, but because his stilted speech made the whole ordeal an exercise in frustration.

The last human Kenn had really talked to was Brooks, and he was… jolly. In stark contrast to Rowley, the man was about as informal as anyone could get away with and not be thrown into the brig. He would laugh, joke, and ask questions without reservation, while the rest of the crew maintained a respectful distance at least. Kenn liked Brooks, if for no other reason than he was someone who he could actually talk normally to, rather than having to struggle around a language barrier or worry about whether or not the innocent question he was asking about the ship was going to turn out to be rather less innocent in the eyes of his hosts.

That was just a sideshow to why he was really there, though, and that was to fit in the engine. Looking back, it would've been far easier to scrap the pirate's ship and just make a new drive from scratch than trying to transplant their drive into the dreadnought. Fortunately, the human's drones were able to do a lot of the heavy lifting (literally and figuratively). Even the Stormtroopers, who Kenn had come to understand were some sort of elite military force in powered armour, had pitched in to help where they could. He'd been assigned a pair as helping hands and bodyguards, and they were very diligent, never once leaving his sight and working without rest.

The combined efforts of an experienced quarian engineer and an entire dreadnought's worth of drones and support personnel had managed to get it all done in only a little over what Kenn had originally predicted, and everything had gone to plan. They now _couldn't _kill him and be done with it, at least not without seriously compromising their ability to make use of their new mass effect drive, and without any real knowledge of the rest of the galaxy, they were reasonably reliant on his judgment to upgrade to a proper drive rather than limping on the one from the salvaged frigate.

Kenn wouldn't just return from his Pilgrimage with a third of the eezo from the freighter, he'd also return with a dreadnought flush with the other two thirds looking for a full refit. Of course, the former would be enough, but the latter was just a nice extra - something that certainly wouldn't hurt his standing within the fleet, and if he went to have a private chat with the admirals, he might even end up with a slight commission for the recommendation.

It had all gone perfectly to plan, but that didn't change the fact that none of this sat well with Kenn. What exactly would he do when he returned to the fleet? Assuming he could get a commission, he could retire on the spot. Maybe even buy his own ship, drown his sorrows by allowing only the most attractive women onboard. As amusing as the idea was, it didn't really help. Six years ago, he would've leapt at that opportunity, but those six years has changed him. He wasn't the man he once was, and after cruising around the galaxy for so long, you couldn't easily leave that behind.

He was tired, emotionally and physically, but the allure of the stars never once dimmed. Maybe returning to the fleet would remind him of why he wanted to go home in the first place. Quarians don't deal with extended isolation well, after all. He couldn't return to the life he led on the Citadel, not even with the riches he stood to potentially gain.

There was only one way to find out, of course, and that was to return home. Standing on the bridge with the humans as the dreadnought, mirroring its master's caution, slowly aligns itself with the relay.

"So you're sure this gravity field will hold?" Rowley asks from her chair, where following proper regulations, she was secured. The other humans on the deck, down from the captain to the lowest ensign, had all secured themselves to the ship in one way or another. Not a single one of them trusted this supposed mass effect. After all, they might not have any better choice, but they have every reason to distrust FTL technology.

"I'd stake my life on it." Kenn said confidently. From his current position standing beside the XO, he could see out of the bridge's window, in which the sight of the relay grew. Seeing the outline of the ship beside the relay gave a sense of scale that Kenn hadn't had previously. Just like seeing the freighter next to the dreadnought contextualized the sheer scale of the ship, so did seeing the dreadnought next to the relay contextualize _it's _scale. The massive structure dwarfed the dreadnought. It really was a wonder of engineering that the Protheans had left for them.

"You might well be doing just that." Brooks cranes his neck back over his chair to look up at Kenn. "I mean, if that and the inertial dampening fail, you're going to hit the window like a missile. Saw that happen to someone once. Not the inertial dampening part, but the hitting the window like a missile and breaking all the bones in their body part."

"Shouldn't you be talking to that thing, Brooks? We have to make it through two of these relays before we can refit this ship, and I don't want you to end up ruining something on our first jump." Rowley drummed her fingers on the chair's arm as she chastised the Lieutenant. "I often wonder what we pay you for."

"That should all be handled, if Kenn's worth his salt." He flashes another smile at the Quarian, then looks thoughtful. "You do realize that we're not getting paid anymore, right?"

"Just do it, Brooks."

"Aye aye, Ma'am."

As the ship aligns itself for the final approach, the signal is given and the relay begins it's work. The familiar azure lightning crackles and strikes the ship as the bound energy of the swirling vortex demands release and the arms of the relay begin to spin faster and faster. The humans look uncomfortable, but Kenn remains unperturbed, and the calm becomes infectious. Clearly space lightning was normal. The activity reaches its apex, and space is suddenly distorted at the bow of the ship. With a sudden lurch as the inertial dampening systems fought with the acceleration the ship was under, they were underway.

Blue light played across the sky as they sped towards the target. The awed look of the crew proved more interesting than the light show he'd seen thousands of times. He'd almost forgotten how beautiful it looked. Before they could get used to it, however, it was already over. Space before them stretched again before rebounding back like an elastic band. Inertial dampening once again fought with the acceleration, but a cursory glance around the bridge revealed that… everything seemed to be intact. There was another relay in the distance, another star, and a few twinkling dots that could be planets.

"Damage report. Also, someone please check that we aren't in another galaxy. The past week has been exciting but I'm not eager to repeat it, thank you." Fuchs demanded. Of course, Kenn only heard half of it, but it was enough to get the picture.

"We're in the right place, at least according to the maps that we lifted from the codex, sir." The navigation officer replied. Despite having had over a week, Fuchs hadn't actually learnt his name as he had meant to. The man on his right remained a vague figure that he knew existed, and little more. Now that he thought about it, Fuchs really hadn't done anything the past few weeks but read and be slightly concerned that he had been less convincing than he'd hoped and that Rowley was planning a mutiny. No mutiny had materialized, but he had taken to sleeping with a handgun, just in case.

"Excellent." He nodded in Kenn's direction in approval, a gesture he returned. Another person that he had wanted to get to know was this alien. By the sounds of Brook's report, these quarians could actually turn out to be very useful allies. Being natural engineers and outcasts from the galactic community, they were perfectly suited to bring the _Epimetheus _up to local standards, but as Rowley had warned, Fuchs had to think longer term. A colony might be a good idea, and using the quarians as intermediaries and trading partners could help support that endeavour. They'd also be the ones most interested in a trade for technology, should they end up deciding that that was a good idea. Remaining on good terms with them could prove useful, and getting to know one of them personally might've been a good idea… if they could talk. Fuchs had half a mind to order Brooks to come up with some sort of translation package for Hyperian, that way they could communicate without resorting to hand gestures, but he had better things to do.

For the moment, anyway, hand gestures would have to do.

* * *

The second jump is completed without incident, though despite the Chief Engineer's protests that the drive was moments away from falling apart. Of course, it probably was though it did hold long enough to get them within range of the Migrant Fleet. Kenn imagined that he could almost see the Fleet in the distance, though they were far, far out of visual range. The sensors could pick them up, of course, though they'd need to approach much closer bef-

For the first, and Kenn hoped the last time, he saw the human dreadnought enter full combat mode. The lights of the bridge dimmed, and faded away to nothing, and an ominous red glow was all that illuminated the crew. Alarms sounded, displays were brought up, and a map of the system was quickly drawn. All this and they had barely popped out of the other side of the relay.

"General quarters, general quarters, all hands brace for acceleration." Fuchs spoke into the intercom, his voice echoing throughout the ship, though he seemed more focused on the tacmap, which had decided that the various contacts of the Migrant Fleet were either inexplicably hot rocks or hostile warships.

"It's alright, it's alright! That's the Fleet!" Kenn would recognize the formation of the contacts on the tacmap anywhere, liveships near the center, the rest of the fleet in a cordon around them. "You don't need to panic, just hail them!"

"This is just standard procedure, until we can positively ID them." Rowley explained, barely even flinching despite the panic. The stars in the bridge window began to violently jerk around. The dreadnought was taking evasive action. "A couple of ships, we go on heightened alert. A fleet? This is the response."

"It seems a bit excessive." Kenn muttered, slightly less panicked now that it didn't seem like they'd be opening fire. "You really should hail them sooner rather than later, though, especially if we absolutely have to move like… this." He gestures out the window, the view being somewhat naeusating. Seriously, how did the humans manage to deal with space combat without inertial dampening?

"Already on it." Brooks announced. "It's just… we should be able to figure this out… There we go! Captain, you've got the horn."

"Seriou-?!" Fuchs startles, almost dropping the intercom before realizing that he was now speaking directly to the alien fleet. "Ahem. This is the HNC _Epimetheus, _requesting permission to… dock, I guess. I mean, that is assuming that you have something that can take us, and- oh wow, you've got some big ships. Jesus." He rambled into the mic, and all of it in Hyperian.

Kenn couldn't just watch the to-be trainwreck evolving in front of him. Walking over to the captain, he holds his hand out, gesturing towards the mic. It only takes him a few seconds of staring at Kenn with a blank expression to figure out what he meant, and to hand over the mic.

"This is Kenn'Dannah nar Rayya, requesting permission to dock with the…" Kenn took a moment to think. Pretty much no ship would deny him access with the load of eezo he had. Not that he really needed to choose now, but it sure would be easier if he had the humans drop him off at the doorstep of the ship he wanted to live on. He liked the liveships, they had greenery and some open space, and it wouldn't mean a massive change in lifestyle from his childhood, so at least it'd be familiar. "Shellen."

There's a silence from the other end that probably indicated confusion. "To clarify, this is the… 'HNC _Epimetheus_'?"

"That's correct."

"Please hold." There's a click from the other end.

The alarms had stopped, and the ship had slowed it's maneuvering to a relative crawl, presumably in response to learning that the Migrant Fleet wasn't going to ambush them. At least not immediately.

"What was that?" Kenn looked up to find Fuchs' face uncomfortably close to his mask.

"Er… Oh, right, you don't have proper translation systems. You know, I could probably put something together for you if you just gave me a language package, it wouldn't even take that long." Fuchs takes this news about as well as he'd take a sledgehammer to the face, recoiling with the force of his own idiocy.

"Why the hell didn't I think of that!" He slapped himself on the forehead hard enough that some crew members turned around thinking that someone had been punched. "Brooks, can you send him a goddamn language package? I'm fairly sure that we've got a dictionary loaded into the system somewhere."

"It's not just the words, sir, it's syntax and-"

"Can you do it or not?"

"Sure. I figured out how to transfer between our two systems, and we can just use the codex as an-" Fuchs silenced him by raising a single hand, while gesturing to Kenn with the other.

"Just send it."

Brooks sighs, and returns to his console. After a few seconds of furious typing, he reaches under the 'desk' and pulls a thumb drive out of a slot. "Hey, Kenn, do you have that codex thing on you? I think I left the, er, thingy in there." He asks, hopping out of his chair and approaching, brandishing the thumb drive.

"The thingy?" Kenn asks as he fishes the codex out from his pack. The 'thingy' was some sort of adaptor device, between the human's data transfer system and the council standard. It was crude, all exposed wires and green PCBs, but it did the job. "Oh, the adaptor?"

"Yeah, that's the word I was looking for." Without further question, Brooks slots the thumb drive into the codex. "So, you should have the language suite on that datapad. I don't know how long the rest'll take, but for both our sakes please get the captain one ASAP."

Fuchs only half understood the proceedings, but understood enough to know that Brooks was probably calling him an idiot again.

Fortunately, before they could start bickering again, Kenn had gotten to work. The translation systems were designed to digest this exact sort of information, and Kenn had no problems updating his own. He cast his mind back to the past week, and wondered exactly how much easier it would have all been if he could translate the language that the majority of the crew used. He suppressed a groan.

"Alright, testing, testing. Can you understand me?" Kenn was happy to see that Fuchs' eyes lit up in recognition.

"Perfectly!" He chuckled. "Wow, that was entirely too easy." Then, his face suddenly went dark. "Do you mean that we went the past week barely understanding each other when we could've solved that problem in less than thirty seconds?" The sudden realization that Fuchs had come to was followed by the exact same expression that Kenn's face had worn only moments earlier.

Brooks, however, found that utterly hilarious, and laughed all the way back to his station.

"Pretty much. That aside, it won't be very helpful if you actually want to talk to anyone else. I've had my system on speaker the whole time, and that system won't work unless the person you're talking to also has the language package, which they're pretty unlikely to have." Kenn explains. He enjoyed explaining technical matters, especially when his audience were as emotive as Fuchs.

"Alright, I get it. So do I need one of those translator things for myself?"

"You will. I should have enough omni-gel to print one out." Putting the codex away, he pulled up his omni-tool (another seemingly mundane thing that impressed these humans) and checked the omni-gel reserves. Finding that there was enough for something so small, he checks through his library of schematics and finds something that should work. It was built for the local humans, who might've been a little smaller and bulkier than these ones, but their heads were still roughly the same shape.

What Fuchs and Kenn saw were two different things. Fuchs saw something like a miniaturized nano-forge print complex electronics in a moment, and Kenn saw an omni-tool make a pretty simple translator system. Fuchs wondered whether it was nanobots or not while Kenn inspected it for flaws. Seeming sufficient, he hands the small headset. It was flexible, wiry, and most important of all, cheap.

"It looks good enough. Should come pre-charged, but frankly it's not like it really needs much in the way of power. I'm guessing it should be pretty obvious how you wear it."

Fuchs had taken off his hat, and was halfway through the process of putting the translator on. "Yeah, it's simple enough. How do I turn it on?"

"It's already on." Kenn switches his translator back to the normal mode with a few button presses. "You should be able to understand me?"

"I can. Interesting." Fuchs replaces his hat, snug against the bracket keeping the translator intact. "I'm guessing it's a one way thing?"

"Kinda? It depends, you can change how it works as and when needed." Kenn flicks through his omni-tool to check that everything's functional. "For now, given that you're the only one with the 'Hyperian' language package, I've set it to a mode where it'll translate quarian speech, then beam your response to their translators in quarian."

"Couldn't we just give them the language package?" Fuchs asks as he batted the mic.

"They're probably not going to accept random data packages from an unknown ship. The Fleet are pretty paranoid when it comes to cyber defence."

"You know, it's all well and good that you two are getting along, but you are aware that we actually can't understand what our guest is saying now?" Rowley leans towards Fuchs, who had temporarily forgotten that he had a crew.

"Oh, right. Yeah, I suppose it's probably for the best that you keep it on speaker mode for now, Kenn." Fuchs admits.

"Sure. I'll put something together for everyone else before we board. Hey, actually, they haven't gotten back in touch, have they?"

"Nope. They put us on hold. Pretty convenient, actually, given that the captain couldn't actually talk to them until now." Brooks answers from his console. "Why do you think it's taking them so long, anyway? Is this normal?"

"They'd try to ID you, but being that the ship won't be on any local records, they'll come up dry. Right about now, they'll be deliberating on whether or not they should refuse entry, but I'd bet they'll let us in, though they'll want me to give a code to confirm it is actually Kenn'Dannah nar Rayya and not a pirate pretending to be me."

Fuchs sighed. "Even in a new galaxy, I'm on hold."

The comm crackles. "Sorry for the delay. We cannot identify your ship. Kenn, please verify."

"After time adrift among open stars, along tides of light and through shoals of dust, I shall return to where I began."

"Permission granted. Transmitting docking coordinates now. Welcome back." The controller replies, a sense relief clear in his tone. They were probably an inch away from opening fire. After all, an unknown ship just jumped into the system, began making evasive maneuvers while hailing them and spewing nonsense at them. Kenn would be on edge too.

"We'll need a security and quarantine team to meet us. Our ship is… _not clean._" A shudder runs up his spine at the memory of the shower room.

"Understood. Modifying coordinates now, approach exterior docking cradle four."

* * *

Actually docking with the Shellen was a difficult matter. For one, though the liveships were huge, about twice as long as the _Epimetheus_ and significantly more massive, the dreadnought was still too large to make docking a quick and easy process. Further complicating the matter was the fact that the _Epimetheus_ didn't adopt the local 'universal' docking clamp system. Fuchs wondered why he didn't just offer to take a shuttle, but by that point it was already far too late to suggest that and not feel like an idiot.

Still, awkward though it may be, the docking was finally completed. It did take a few engineers helping the docking arm attach to the outer airlock of the _Epimetheus_ while in full EVA gear. Fortunately, though, they were able to confirm that the arm wasn't about to vent them out into space, and the ship reluctantly cycled the airlock.

Standing in the doorway were Kenn, Fuchs, Rowley, and a half dozen Stormtroopers. Though Fuchs knew it would be astoundingly stupid to start any trouble with a dreadnought stuck to a quater of your civilian population, that went both ways: The _Epimetheus_ was surrounded by quarian warships, a squadron of which had escorted the ship in.

Rowley, for her part, had taken the whole thing rather well, at least as far as Fuchs knew. Normally she would've raised far more complaints about flying into the middle of an alien fleet, but she seemed to accept Fuchs' call. He wasn't sure whether that was because she actually placed faith in his judgement, or because she was waiting for him to get himself killed so she could take over.

"So, any last minute pointers?" Fuchs' speech was muffled by the mask which he wore. Not only was that demanded by the doctor, but by Kenn too, though for opposite reasons. One was worried about him leaving viruses, and the other about him picking some up. Him (and anyone else boarding the ship) needing to wear a mask was one thing they agreed upon.

"Don't worry, I'll be brokering the deal, so I can do a lot of the heavy lifting, diplomatically. All you need to do is look non-threatening." Kenn looks back through the docking arm at the towering humans in military regalia, with a figure that looked more like a quarian writ large than humans scaled up. Behind them, their Stormtroopers loomed over even them, with strange exotic weapons in their hands. "That shouldn't be too difficult, right?"

"Not difficult at all." Fuchs chuckled as he walked past Kenn, heading for the end of the arm. "I'm the picture of non-threatening." Striding on, he comes to a crashing halt before the other side of the airlock. "How do I open this?"

"Just wave at the green hologram." Kenn steps forward, waggling his hand through the hologram projected out from the airlock door, and it slides open with a whirr and a hiss.

The inside of the quarian ship looked odd. The immediate inside of the airlock had nets, boxes, and other ad hoc storage solutions filled to the brim with… stuff. As far as Fuchs could tell, junk. It reminded him a little of very early spaceflight, where acceleration was carefully planned and space was at even more of a premium than it was now. Every surface that could be used for storage was.

Rounding a corner, large glass windows illuminated a long corridor, with a handful of other quarians with guns standing at the ready with another quarian in a red, black, and white suit front and center. The armed ones seem to tense at the appearance of the Stormtroopers clanking their way through the corridor, only a few steps behind Fuchs, Rowley, and Kenn, though the one in the center remains as calm as can be.

"Kenn'Dannah nar Rayya, I take it? One hell of an entrance, I must admit. Few people return from Pilgrimage on a dreadnought." The quarian takes a step forwards, approaching Fuchs with his hand out. "Admiral Rael'Zorah. I take it that you're the captain of that ship?"

"Commodore Elias Fuchs. I'm the captain of the _Epimetheus_, yes." He took the offered hand and shook it. A firm, crisp handshake. Fuchs breathed a sigh of relief when he realized that he wasn't about to get into another handshake war.

"Admiral. I'm surprised you came down here for this."

"An alien dreadnought that we don't recognize blows into the system, starts performing evasive maneuvers, then hails us and shouts gibberish down the line, all the while we're on high alert owing to Geth activity? I think that warrants an admiral's presence. Besides, I was on the ship when you hailed us. I'm not going too far out of my way."

Kenn looks at Fuchs. Fuchs couldn't see his eyes, mouth, or any other facial feature, but knew that if he could, he'd been saying "_I told you so."_

"So, I take it that you didn't bring some humans back to the fleet as your Pilgrimage gift. I imagine you'll be talking to one of the captains once we clear up this situation, but purely out of curiosity, what are you bringing?"

"Well, the humans are part of it, you see I was out on a freighter, when suddenly pirates attacked and…"


	8. Negotiations

Kenn was near breathless after finishing his explanation. Fuchs had to admit that he did a good job of it, though. Any truncated version would just invite further questioning, which he quickly realized after the story was thrown off course no less than three times by tangents and side-stories that threatened to force negotiations to continue into the next day. Fortunately, after getting a handle on giving just enough information to sate curiosity and provide context but not enough to only raise further questions and require even more context again, things progressed swiftly.

"So, these humans come from another galaxy, they saved you from pirates, and in return you gave them a portion of the element zero from the freighter you've been working on for the past six years and installed a makeshift FTL drive in their dreadnought, now they're here to trade the eezo you gave them for a tailor made drive?" Rael surmised. The marines around him seemed lost, he seemed mostly lost, and over the course of the conversation even Fuchs had started to become a little confused.

"That's the long and short of it." Kenn wrung his hands. "Does… does any of that make sense?"

Rael stares off into the distance, wheels in his head turning. "It's enough to work with, for now at least." Looking back at the small crowd which had grown behind the marines, he sighs heavily. "We should discuss this somewhere more private. Come. I've been borrowing the captain's office." Inspecting the group, he bobs his head back and forth. "Should be enough space."

The marines part, forcing the crowds to either side of the corridor, though given the already cramped conditions that were now populated by more people than even the quarians intended the room to be able to handle, just as many if not more were forced out into the atriums, and in doing so gathered even more people. The effect meant that, as Fuchs was directed through the tight, winding confines of the quarian liveship in a way that would hopefully mean that he didn't end up with a concussion from slamming his head into an improperly stowed personal effect, he and his party were invariably met with a wake of curious quarians who were wondering what all the commotion was about.

In between bouts of being impressed with the engineering capabilities of the quarians, he was terrified with the potential for any information control to have just slipped through his fingers. Maybe he could've convinced this Admiral Rael'Zorah to keep a lockdown on the traffic controllers and sensor operators, but hiding their presence from this many people might be difficult. Whether the leadership kept mum or not, something was surely going to leak onto this 'extranet' of theirs. He could only hope that official silence from the quarians on the matter would curtail any official investigation from the Council, and that this little meeting would be just another strange occurrence that didn't merit significant investigation.

From where he was currently standing, that is shoulder to shoulder with quarian marines, and close enough to shake hands with at least half a dozen quarian civilians, that didn't seem likely. After moving past a large, open garden area, they dropped back into the confines of the ship's corridors, until arriving at another airlock door, indistinguishable from the others around it save for the fact that two more quarian marines flanked it. Fortunately, the crowd seemed to have abated, and the marines that had escorted them had shooed anyone curious enough to continue hanging around now that they no longer had a crowd to hide in. With the area a little clearer, Rael had enough room to raise his arm and open the airlock, beckoning the party inside.

It was certainly not a big room, which meant that Fuchs was completely at home. Bare metal walls held together by heavy rivets that had seemingly been installed after the fact, a thin metal desk that seemed awfully flimsy, and fold up chairs stacked around the sides of the room next to physical data storage cabinets that Fuchs assumed were part of a system of backups. A few computers using the same holographic technology as Kenn's arm computer gave the room a warm orange glow as they battled with the harsher white light of the strip lights in the ceiling.

"Sit." Rael commanded as he pushed past a filing cabinet so that he could get behind his own desk. The rest of the group stood numbly for a second, before the three people with any desire to sit reached for chairs and unfolded them. Meanwhile the Stormtroopers, who had split off into two groups, the smaller of which flanked the door on the inside just as the marines had on the outside while the others milled about outside, seemed content to hold their posts.

With everyone now seated, the discussion could open in earnest. "So, if the estimate that Kenn provided on the eezo that you have in your hold is reasonably close to accurate, I'm sure that the Admiralty would be happy to divert some manpower to retrofit your ship. At this stage, I can't promise how long it would take, nor how much it would cost, exactly. I'd have to take everything to the Admiralty first, maybe even the Conclave if we need to start drafting civilians to work on it, though I have no doubts that they'd agree to some sort of deal."

Fuchs almost recoiled at the speed with which the Admiral launched into the negotiations. Fuchs wasn't a trained nor natural diplomat. He rarely found himself in situations which pulling rank or shooting the offending party couldn't resolve, and so he was remarkably out of practice when it came to these sort of deals. Recovering, he began to run through a mental list of all the details he needed to confirm throughout this discussion.

Firstly, he had only a vague idea of the value of element zero or the amount of work that went into the construction of tailor made drive, so any deals cut would have to be taken on good faith unless he could figure out the true value on his own. He could go a way to doing that through indirect means. The fact that Rael was confident that he could get an agreement on the matter even if they had less element zero than they did, which meant that if he signed it all off, he'd probably be paying over the odds.

Secondly, he needed to figure out if the quarians would be amicable to keeping this quiet. He already knew there was only so far he could take that, but if they wouldn't mind lying to anyone who questioned them on the matter, he could perhaps buy them enough time to establish themselves… somehow.

Lastly, he needed to consider whether or not it might be a good idea to not push too hard on the above two points if it meant a better long term relationship. Like it or not, it seemed like they were going to be in this galaxy for a while, and they weren't delusional enough to believe that one dreadnought could take on the entire rest of the galaxy and win. They'd need allies if they wanted to survive, let alone flourish, and Brooks had flagged the quarians for closer scrutiny for a reason. Yes, they had a lot in common with Hyperion, in many ways, though the same could be said for a number of the aliens in the galaxy. What really set them apart was their isolation from the rest of the galaxy. Fewer conflicts of allegiances, and no doubt the quarians knew just as well as he did that no-one lasts long on their own. Even the Systems Alliance would doubtless try to absorb them, which would go down with the crew about as well as a hydrogen fire aboard the ship. The quarians, perhaps, might be more inclined to treat any partnership as an equitable one.

Fuchs ensured that he chose his words carefully. "I'm glad to hear that you're open to the possibility. Of course, it's entirely understandable that you're unable to rubber stamp any deal here and now, but the longer we linger here the higher the chance that someone might come to take a closer look." He leaned forwards with the last words, hoping for his body language to carry across the intent that inflection might be unable to carry past a translation barrier.

"It's likely already too late for that." He replied bluntly. "Your dreadnought will have attracted attention from anyone monitoring the relays. Normally patrols wouldn't drift outside of Citadel Space, but if a dreadnought doesn't get their attention, I don't know what would. They'll probably send someone to take a look from a distance, and when they see it docked with a quarian liveship, they'll come up with some excuse to investigate. They might even accuse us of violating the Treaty of Farixen."

"It's my understanding of the Treaty that it only applies to Council member races, which would mean that you're not bound by it, correct?" Rowley spoke with entirely too much authority for someone who'd only had access to the information in question for a few days at most.

"True, but that won't stop them." Rael replies, before turning back to Fuchs. "I gather that you might want to keep your presence here hidden, but that simply won't be possible. Too many people already know about the ship, and you, for us to have any reasonable chance of keeping it under wraps. That's only considering the people in the Fleet, and not any observers the Council might have on the edge of their space."

"If keeping all this hush hush is going to be impossible, then the next best thing would be to keep them off the trail. Simply put, I'm not asking you to hide any trace of us ever being here, only to keep any Council investigators out of our hair for the moment." Fuchs explained, trying to seem as casual as possible. "I'm not suggesting that you stonewall them, of course, only that you… Maybe give them some information that would suggest that they don't need to investigate further."

Fuchs could imagine that Rael was rolling his eyes at that. "I can't think of any way that we could do that. When they find out that a dreadnought of a strange design docked with a quarian liveship, they'll want to investigate and gather information first hand regardless of what I tell them."

"Wouldn't you have the authority to deny any investigators entry?"

He sighs. "The politics involved with denying the Council entry aside, they'd send STG or Specters. I'd be surprised if there wasn't one on the way as we speak. They won't ask for access, and they won't announce themselves, and then any work we could do to impede them would only make us look guilty."

"If anyone comes poking around our ship, we can deal with them, don't worry about that."

"If by 'deal with them' you mean shooting them dead, then you don't need me to tell you that won't get you what you need. A trail of corpses will only attract more attention, and if you start dragging the corpses of the Council's special forces through the Fleet, any deal we have is off. The eezo isn't worth the hassle of dealing with whatever investigation the Council would muster for the disappearance of their top agents." His tone was level, but it was clear that he was starting to get somewhat frustrated. Fuchs gathered that it was time to take a step in the other direction.

"Well, what if we concocted some story about it being an… oversized pirate ship, or some such. If we build a scaffold around it to hide it from sensors, all any outside observer would see is a ship being salvaged. We could bar entry to the site with guards, so we don't get any tourists, and if we keep the specifics tight we might be able to convince them that it's at least halfway to being true." He weighed the idea up as he spoke. Odds are that if the STG Rael'Zorah spoke of was the same STG he'd read about, they'd not have much trouble bribing someone for information. After all, all the marines that had accompanied the Admiral out to the dock had heard the whole story, and he couldn't expect all of them to hold their tongues when they came offering bribes, and that's without considering the workers that the quarians would need to have on the ship. The technical details they could glean just from observation would clearly indicate that it was no pirate ship.

"They'd know that was a lie immediately." He states just as Fuchs was coming to the same conclusion. "That being said… it might work. It being an unusually advanced pirate ship would be reason enough to salvage it alone, and though they'd certainly want to know more than that, they'd probably go snooping around Omega for details. By the time they realize they'd been duped, you could be on the opposite side of the galaxy. Hmm." He drummed his fingers on the desk as he thought. "It would be difficult, but doable. Certainly doable."

There was a pregnant pause, no doubt intended by the Admiral. Fuchs bit the bullet. "How difficult?"

"Difficult." He repeated. "The eezo is payment enough to get the work done, but if you want to keep what's really happening off the STG's radar, then I'll need to pull in some of the most trustworthy engineers and fasttrack a lot of the work orders. I'd have to draw the labour and materials from _other_ projects. The eezo pays for the work, yes, but I can't buy time, no matter how much eezo you have."

"There's something you need us to do, then?" Fuchs leaned back. For the Admiral to open up on this without prompting meant that it was something he really needed done, which meant that it was an angle Fuchs could work. "You understand that it would be unwise for us to take sides so soon, right? If it was an attack on someone else, we'd need to be convinced."

"What makes you think it would be an attack?"

"What else do you ask a dreadnought to do?"

"Point taken. You're right, anyway, though I wouldn't worry about choosing sides. This is a fight where your side is already chosen." He turns his attention away from the group briefly, to bring up a file on his screen. "I take it that you've heard of the geth from Kenn here?"

"I mentioned it in passing, though you said you guys translated the codex entries, right?" Kenn spoke up, a little unsure. "They should know."

"We had read the dossiers, yes. Networked machine intelligence, rebelled against you almost 500 years ago. You've been roaming the stars ever since." Rowley once again rattled off the information that she'd somehow memorized.

"Closer to dot on 300, but that's mostly right." For the first time, the Admiral's voice seemed to crack, transforming from the calm, though impersonal tone it had taken to a strained, frustrated one. "The geth routed the quarians from our homeworld, Rannoch, and have defied any attempt at reconciliation or even dialogue since. Since then, they've almost never strayed from beyond the Perseus Veil, that was until only a few weeks ago, when the human colony of Eden Prime was attacked by a geth fleet, complete with a large dreadnought. We're not sure why they've chosen now to make their move, but we're certain that they're planning something. There are now geth throughout the Traverse, the Terminus, and even some in Council space, though it seems that they're focused on the Alliance."

"So what is it that you want us to do, exactly?"

"There's an old space station left behind when we first fled Rannoch, just outside the Veil. We have reason to believe that the geth have reactivated that station in secret, and have been operating it for some time. As of right now, we don't have the resources to launch a fleet large enough to potentially fight off the geth on a hunch. You could investigate with impunity, and if they try to fight you off, you have the firepower to make a fighting retreat." He explains, having calmed down somewhat. It seemed that talking about the geth made him somewhat unhappy, to say the least.

Fuchs nodded along with Rael's explanation. It made sense. If the geth were making moves, you'd want to know about it. An AI with hundreds of years to prepare for an all out war against the galaxy was an unpleasant prospect. "So, you'd just want us to investigate, and have a poke around, or blow the entire place up?"

"You guessed correctly the first time. Destroying the station from the outside would take too long, giving the geth more than enough time to bring in reinforcements. Engaging the station directly would likewise lead to a prolonged battle. Even assuming they don't have a standing guard, the station would call for reinforcements immediately, and they'd be there before you could demolish it." Rael turns the screen around for the rest of the party to see, and leans on the desk. On screen was a slightly blurry picture of the station in question, with old schematics no doubt dug up from very old archives next to it. "I've been working my entire life to try to retake Rannoch. To fight the geth. We've made progress. Not much, but some." His voice takes on a graver tone. "I have made a device that could replicate a geth IFF, and disrupt their sensors. It's nothing they couldn't work around in minutes in a fight. Though it's promising technology, I'm not telling you this because I'm trying to make conversation. If we mount some additional equipment onto your ship, you could fly right up to the station. They might not even notice that anything was wrong, until you board."

"Couldn't they just look outside and see the ship at that point?" Fuchs shakes his head. "That seems incredibly risky."

"They exclusively use external sensors to see outside their ships, so I've no doubt that one of their first changes to the station would've been to remove any windows and harden the hull. I won't deny that it's risky, but once you're that close the geth wouldn't risk firing on your ship. You could board the station. Plant charges. Disrupt their network. Whatever you liked. If you destroyed any communications equipment, you may be able to salvage their memory cores. They wouldn't risk wiping the whole station if they couldn't jump somewhere else. With that type of information, my research would jump forward decades." He started to become a little excited at the idea, though he hid it well, doing his best to maintain the air of focused professionalism he'd cultivated.

"That's a significantly more complicated and dangerous mission than what you first pitched. Probably more dangerous than leaving the ship out in the open and waiting for someone to come looking." Fuchs may not be a diplomat, but he knew when someone really wanted something. "I'd rather not put my ship into a fight that we might not even win unless we can avoid it. This isn't our fight."

The Admiral stared at Fuchs, letting the silence that had grown lay heavy on the room. Eventually, he relented. "We can cut the price of the work. Not by much, but by some. 10, 20% if I had to give numbers. If you're going to be working in the interests of the quarian people, the deal would be a much easier sell to the Admiralty Board. We could bring the timeline forward significantly, which would decrease the chance that you'd be investigated." He drummed his fingers on the table again as he thought. "I'm sure we could come to some sort of agreement that might tempt you."

It was Fuchs' time to do some careful thinking. Rael'Zorah had made a very convincing argument. If what he'd said about fast-tracking the improvements was true, and Fuchs had no reason to believe otherwise, then it actually worked out in their best interests to go along with this plan. On the other hand, he'd been skeptical about the geth since first learning of them, having only learnt about them from their creators, who'd been kicked off their home planet by them. Still, they hadn't expanded since, which seemed to indicate that there was more going on here than meets the eye. After all, if they were just compassionless murderbots, why not finish the job?

The inconsistencies didn't change the fact that the quarians, and the rest of the universe hated AI. He'd managed to hide the deep integration that AI had into the ship from Kenn, and it wouldn't be too difficult to convince the quarians that the AI onboard were just advanced VI. After all, Hyperion's AI didn't seem to quite line up with the local concept of how an AI was supposed to act. Still, he held out some small hope that perhaps some sort of contact could be established with the geth, if for no other reason than to eliminate the galaxies' premier cyberwarfare experts from their list of potential enemies. Brooks hadn't had a chance to properly stack their capabilities up against anyone capable of fighting back, but it stood to reason that they weren't going to be too far ahead of the actual AI.

Choosing to side against the geth might prove to be the wrong choice in hindsight, but if he were forced to choose, he'd pick the side of the living. Here he wasn't necessarily being forced to choose, but this was clearly a tipping point. Getting moving faster and retaining more of their limited reserves of material for barter was a good deal, but moving deep into enemy territory with nothing but experimental technology that wouldn't hold up for more than a few minutes by the admission of it's creator to protect them was just as risky as it sounded.

After thinking for what was already an uncomfortably long time, Fuchs realized that he wasn't a whole lot closer to an answer. Sensing the impatience from the Admiral, he stepped up his efforts to come to a solution. Boiling it down, the decision was between risking detection in exchange for not taking a side versus taking a side and putting themselves into a dangerous situation in exchange for a lower chance of detection and sundry other benefits.

He scratches the skin around his mask. Was it always that tight?

He really wasn't suited for these sorts of situations. Maybe he should've taken Rowley up on her offer.

"And… how far would you be willing to go to tempt me?" Fuchs asked quietly.

"That would depend on exactly what you found at the base. I'd happily waive a portion of the cost and expedite the upgrades in exchange for the peace of mind that I'd get from finding out that it was just a false positive, but you understand that in that circumstance we couldn't offer anything more. If, however, you found a functional geth base but were forced to retreat, we'd be able to consider a… shall we call it a finders fee? If you found a functional geth base and destroyed it? The quarian people would be indebted to you. I could assure you that you'd have a safe harbour for as long as I remain an Admiral, at least, though I can't guarantee anything beyond that."

"Those are some very nonspecific offers in exchange for me and my men risking _very _specific dangers."

"So far we haven't discussed any numbers at all. I don't know how much work or material your ship will take to upgrade. I don't know whether you'll find any geth. I don't know what the Conclave would approve, if they'd even need to be asked. There are too many unknowns for me to sit here and discuss specific numbers with a straight face. I can tell you that the quarians have been pushed around too long to even consider dealing unfairly."

Kenn's chest puffed up with pride. Fuchs ignored him.

"People have different definitions of what's fair, Admiral."

"They do." He steepled his fingers.

A plan passes through his mind. Obviously they'd only be able to operate so long without food. They were almost out of fuel already, and it wouldn't be much longer before they'd need to top up, though fortunately they could use the same fusion fuels as the locals, after a little more refining. They would need some way of bringing in supplies, spare parts, and all manor of other bits and pieces from across the galaxy. The quarians would make for perfect brokers.

"I would prefer to avoid merchants if possible, but we're going to need supplies at some point. You seem to be open to the idea of keeping our relationship under wraps, and I'm sure you could organize the occasional supply run for us."

"We don't have the funds to support an entire dreadnought on top of the rest of the Fleet. That's an unreasonable request." Rael replied, unamused.

"I never suggested that you'd be funding it out of pocket. At or _around _cost would work." Fuchs shrugged. "The truth is that you quarians seem like a technically capable sort, and I believe that… future endeavours could prove profitable for the both of us. It's important to me that I make the danger that I'm exposing my men to is worth it, but it's also important that we… cultivate a relationship."

"You're speaking like a volus, only with less hissing." Rael chides, to Kenn's amusement. "That sounds fair. It wouldn't be outside of our means to ferry supplies around, or deal with the merchants on your behalf." He pauses and shuffles in his chair. "I will admit that I'm curious. 'Future endeavours'. It was my understanding that you were limited to only that one ship. Future endeavours makes it sound like you have plans to expand on that."

"We can't expect the crew to be content living as glorified mercenaries." Rowley scoffed. "Every single one of them signed up to be more than petty pirates, and we have every intent of giving them something that they can be proud of."

"...What she said. We're not sure what we want to do. We've been here a little over a week." Fuchs admits. "Having somewhere to call home seems like a good start though, and there's no end of habitable planets lying around. So long as your definition of 'habitable' is reasonably flexible."

"Humans." Rael shakes his head. "Even when you come from another galaxy, you still can't sit still. I'm surprised you're considering staking out on your own. I would've thought that you'd gotten in contact with the Alliance."

"It's a long story. No-one on the ship is comfortable with that idea, least of all me."

"Very well. I won't pry." Rael stands, offering his hand across the desk. "No details, I know, but it's the best I can do for now. Do we have a deal?"

"On investigating the robots or upgrading our ship?" Fuchs stands, sensing that the discussion had come to an end one way or another. "Either way, if you're serious about dealing fairly, then yes, we have a deal." He reaches across, meeting the Admiral's hand halfway, shaking it vigorously. "I know it's in poor taste to threaten someone after making a deal, but I don't think I need to explain what our reaction would be if you try to screw us after this." He adds with a wide smile.

Rael chuckles. "I'd do the same. Now, I will have to ask you to leave. Normally I'd offer some hospitality in this situation, but the risk of contaminating a liveship is not one to be taken lightly. I hope that's not a problem."

"Not at all. We have… perfectly serviceable quarters on the ship." Fuchs supposed that was the most polite way of referring to them.

* * *

**A/N: **

Sorry for the delay, I took a short break from writing. Coincidentally, I've been playing the first game.

Thanks for the favourites, follows, comments, and all the rest. It's encouraging to know that people are enjoying it. Also, if you have any criticism to add, do feel free. Without criticism, improving takes longer, so I appreciate that just as much as I appreciate compliments (Though the latter is better for my ego).

Lastly, there's a chance that the rating for this fic may have to be bumped up to M. I'm pretty confident that it fits T best right now, but the Mass Effect universe isn't exactly the cleanest of places, and the people from Hyperion aren't the nicest. Things may get violent.


	9. Heretic

Bureaucracy did its work. Admiral Rael'Zorah wasn't lying when he said promises of assistance would expedite the process. Though they were not privy to whatever discussions the quarians were having with regards to the deal, the Admiral summoned them once more to confirm some details. This time Rowley led the charge, with occasional encouragement from Fuchs. Details weren't his strongest suit, and Rowley had a better grasp of the value of the goods and services being exchanged than he did anyway. Eventually, an agreement was reached wherein the vast majority of the eezo was traded away for the work on the ship, and a smaller portion, maybe a fifth of what they had originally had, was kept for future trades. The Admiralty were nice enough to inform them that it would be more than enough to arm their men with local weapons and armour, and handed off what little food suitable for human consumption they had on hand along with some additional fuel to aid with the mission.

Within only a few hours, work had begun and paranoia spiked. The instant the quarians threw up a scaffold, concealing the dreadnought from anyone lurking around the edge of the system, the engineering crew had begun to lodge complaints. They were afraid that the quarians might try to copy down technical specifications of the ship, blunting whatever technological edge they might have. Word of Rael'Zorah's warnings had spread, and the engineering crew was now additionally terrified that Council spies might arrive to do the same. Fuchs managed to keep the crew from lynching the next quarian engineer that lingered for too long near something sensitive with promises of alcohol when they returned and threats of being forced to guard the next thing they complained about being too exposed.

With motivation applied, the wheels of progress began to turn. Now that his own crew weren't _as _obstructive, significant headway was made in the work over the course of just a few days. It turns out that with access to rapid fabrication technology that exceeded even that available to Hyperion's engineers the majority of the time consuming work of upgrading a ship can be sped up to the point where even a major refit like this could happen on a timeframe of days or weeks rather than months or years. Not that the quarian's skill was lost on him. Despite his own reservations about allowing their engineers access to sensitive systems, they managed to work around the awkward restrictions placed on them by Fuchs' own growing paranoia with elegant ease.

There was an undeniable tension, though. The quarians clearly resented the assertion that they weren't trustworthy enough to be allowed access to the ship's unique systems, while the crew had grown even more suspicious that they were secretly taking notes on those very same highly classified systems. It wasn't an easy situation to deal with. On one hand, Fuchs sympathized with the crew, sharing many of their concerns. They had no real reason to trust that the quarians wouldn't try to examine the ship's systems, and there was only so much that the crew could bar the quarian engineers access to. On the other hand, Fuchs knew that this was entirely necessary. Necessary for what exactly, he couldn't say, but he did know that not having a functional FTL drive in a galaxy where such things were common limited their options greatly, and that was unacceptable. Baring the quarians entry to various areas to limit any potential espionage was entirely reasonable, and certainly the sort of thing that the Admirals would likely expect. Some of the engineers did seem unusually curious. However, you couldn't bar them access to everything: They were here to put a new drive system into the ship, an inertial dampening system, and artificial gravity. They'd have to see the reactor, at least.

They pushed through the mutual suspicion and finger pointing after a while. A few suspected Council agents were turned away politely, which the Admiralty seemed to believe had been done with enough tact that it may lead them on a wild goose chase. 'May' being the operative word. Fuchs had been told, in no uncertain terms, that lingering too long would only invite further investigation. He would have to move on the geth base as soon as possible, partly due to the Rael'Zorah's own impatience, and partly due to the general concern shared amongst all parties that further Council investigation would invite questions that no-one really wanted to answer.

So, when the drive was fitted and everything was put back into its place, the _Epimetheus _broke free of the scaffold that had been constructed around it, and headed for the relay, though not before picking up a stray.

"Thanks for letting me come along, by the way." Kenn stood behind the XO's chair again. The rest of the crew still didn't trust the inertial dampening, at least not fully, and the relay looming in the distance certainly didn't look as welcoming to them as it did to Kenn.

"I don't see why we wouldn't bring you with us." Fuchs waved his hand dismissively from the captain's chair. "Our own engineers are still struggling with the new systems, and I'm fairly certain that Haynes couldn't fix this new drive if something went wrong with it. It's just prudent."

"Yeah, man. And if you were going to try and kill us, you wouldn't have gone through all the effort of directing us to your friends in the Fleet, huh?" Brooks chimed in. "Not just the drive and assorted 'mass effect' stuff, anyway, it's the cyberwarfare stuff the Admiral gave us. You probably have a better handle on how that stuff works, right?"

"Not really." Kenn admitted. "Rael'Zorah has been working on the equipment for years. I don't really know how any of it works."

"Note that I said _better _and not _good._" Brooks shrugged, then suddenly broke into a smile. "Hey, you know that Colonel Summer hates the fact that you're onboard? Haynes, too, but that's really not a surprise, guy hates anyone that isn't part of the engineering cult he's got going on."

"Summer hates him?" Fuchs furrows his brow in confusion. "What for?"

"Nah, Summer doesn't hate him, she hates him being on the ship, there's a difference."

"The marine woman? She doesn't want me on the ship?" Kenn seems a little uncomfortable at hearing that, which comes as no surprise to Fuchs. She was, after all, the woman in charge of every single marine on the ship, and though the Stormtroopers ultimately answered to him, they were seconded to her. Hearing that a woman who could probably snap you in half with her bare hands and who also commanded the loyalty of every armsman on the ship didn't want you there was a harrowing thought. "If it's going to be a problem, I don't mind-"

"Don't worry about it." Brooks said with a firmness that he didn't usually adopt. "Like I said, she doesn't hate you, it's the security detail that's been bugging her. Setting up actual guards around all the dangerous stuff while the engineers were aboard drove her man, now she has to deal with you being here and all the security concerns that come with that." He clicks his fingers in abrupt realization. "Oh, _and _she has to deal with all the boarding/counter-boarding doctrine being based on microgravity. Now, though?" He throws a thumb drive into the air and catches it as it falls back to his hand. "Things have changed. Thank God they have, too. Hey, captain, can we get a full refit of the washroom with the proceeds of this little mission? Now we've got gravity, there's no excuse for… that."

Fuchs saw the shiver run up Brooks' spine. A handful of showers between a few thousand people was never going to be a pleasant experience, and with the new systems, they could certainly improve the accommodations. "Maybe. We'll see if we have enough left over for it. Navigation, how long is it going to be until we're at the relay?"

"Almost there, sir. ETA five minutes." The navigation officer replies sharply.

"Alright, gang, time to close up shop. Lower the shutters, let's head down to the CIC." Detaching the restraints, Fuchs pushes off from his chair as though he'd float away before remembering that they now have gravity, and sheepishly stands, followed shortly after by the rest of the bridge staff as they head towards the doors.

"Wait, you're just going to leave the bridge?" Kenn asks, following along behind the crew while they migrate through the ship.

"Damn straight. No-one wants to be in the fishbowl when the shooting starts." Brooks said, clapping his hand over Kenn's shoulder. The hallways couldn't be refitted in any sort of reasonable timeframe, so they had to take a slightly more slapdash approach. Obviously, the ship was designed to be traversed without gravity, primarily, and though they were tall enough for the humans to walk through without much trouble, they were still very cramped and inconvenient. Notably, though, there were no ladders or stairs. Crew were expected to float around the ship or use magboots, after all. The solution was… ingenious, from a certain point of view.

The herd of crew members came to a vertical hallway, and one after another, gingerly hopped down. Rather than gravity continue to tug on them, they were instead gently pulled down, allowing the crew to move freely. With some _very _careful engineering, they were able to avoid installing ladders just by modulating where the mass effect fields created gravity. It was brilliant, incredibly lazy, and entirely pointless. Kenn was in awe.

Passing the threshold, the heavy airlock leading into the CIC was sealed by a crewman once Kenn had entered. The CIC was more like some of the combat ship's bridges Kenn had seen in the past than the bridge itself, complete with many workstations surrounding a large holographic display in the center that currently displayed the ship's approach to the relay, complete with various different figures on potential drift, estimated times of arrival, likely hazards, and other such information.

Most of the crew had already taken their seats around the room, all facing the display, and Kenn decided to join them, taking one of the few empty stations close to Brooks, who hadn't let go of Kenn's shoulder until he was forced to by the drop through the low-gravity tube. Kenn liked Brooks. He reminded him of Eryx in some ways, though maybe that was just the grief getting to him.

"So, Kenn, why'd you volunteer to join us on this little trip, anyway?" Brooks leaned over from his console, talking past another officer who seemed rather put out by the situation.

"Admiralty thought it'd be a good idea for you to take a quarian on the mission. Fuchs said he wanted closer relations anyway, right?" Kenn tried to keep his voice down so as to not bother anyone, but had given up on that endeavour half way through when the din of random conversations got too loud for him to even hear himself.

"I get why you're here, I just don't get why you volunteered. You wanted to go home right? Take your gift to your new captain and settle down?" He leans against his console casually.

"I- Well, the Admiralty thought I'd be best suited for accompanying you on the mission." Kenn awkwardly tried to lean away, but the chair did an excellent job of keeping him in place. It wasn't completely a lie. He had floated the idea to Rael'Zorah after the humans had left, and the Admiral had agreed that it would probably be for the best. Keep an eye on the humans and help them out at the same time, and in exchange he'd be given a small sliver of the eezo given in the trade personally. He may very well get that ship after all.

He wasn't exactly sure why he had offered himself. All he knew was that he felt restless as soon as his feet touched the deck of the _Shellen, _and the only cure was to be somewhere else. He didn't know why, and he didn't really like it. He'd spent years distantly pining for home, but looking back on it he always kind of knew that he couldn't really return. His friends kept him on that freighter, and if it hadn't been for those damned pirates, he would've likely never returned to the fleet.

"You… you okay?" Brooks tilts his head and raises an eyebrow, nodding towards Kenn.

Kenn hadn't realized, but his hands had tightened around the edges of the console in front of him. He jerks back suddenly, releasing his grip. "Y-yeah, fine, just… Well, you know. It's been a… wild couple of weeks."

"Yeah, yeah. You know, I don't think anyone would blame you for staying home. You don't need to be here." Brooks offered, trying to sound as friendly as possible.

"I'm fine." He stresses. "I think this is helping, actually."

"If you say so." Shrugging, Brooks returns to his work.

* * *

They dropped out of the last stint of FTL, leaving them drifting through the thick mire of stellar matter that made up the nebula poetically named the "Sea of Storms". The hologram that had previously been depicting basic technical information on their new drive and associated systems flickered and shifted to a confused tactical readout that showed only the _Epimetheus _in an empty void. The CIC was uncomfortably silent.

"Sensor sweep. Brooks, check the IFF." Fuchs' voice takes on a tone of urgency. "It is working, right? Kenn, double check it."

"I don't know how to work this console, and I don't have any authorization to access anything anyway!" Kenn protests.

"Don't worry, sir, everything seems to be working as planned. The IFF reports green, and the cyberwarfare… ah, suite is reporting green too." Brooks scratches his head. "Though I'll admit that I'm not sure what it's doing, exactly. For an IFF, it's taking up an awful lot of comms bandwidth."

"It's not strictly just an IFF, it's also a VI of sorts." Kenn explains. "It'll replicate the geth's internal communications, I think."

"You think?" Fuchs winces. "Alright, and what do we see? Sensors?"

"Three unknowns, one object confirmed to match the profile of the geth station. Unknowns are in orbit around the station, checking profiles against the known geth hulls now." The sensor officer reports. "Coming on screen now, sir."

Just as the words left the officer's mouth, the display shifted again as the newly acquired targets appeared on the hologram. Just as promised, the geth station was surrounded by a picket of what could reasonably be assumed to be geth ships. They kept a loose patrol, the closest over 20,000 kilometers away.

"Alright, I guess we've confirmed that there are geth present. Unless these are those elephant people that apparently live nearby, though that seems unlikely. Brooks, have they correctly ID'd us or are we fooling them?"

"IFF still reports green, and jammers are functional. We can't tell if the jammer is actually working. It's one of those 'if it's doing everything right you don't even notice' situations, sir. If it's working, they'll see us as being a geth ship, if not then they'd probably be shooting at us already."

"That's good news. Navigation, bring us in _very _carefully, we'll attempt the boarding, but if it looks like they're going to start shooting do not hesitate to get us out of there at best speed."

"Aye, captain." The ship's icon on the display began to accelerate towards the station. Fuchs appreciated not having to be concerned about passing out if the ship had to jink particularly hard, but he was still very uncomfortable with not feeling much in the way of acceleration at all. Especially down here in the CIC, where your only context for the battle raging outside would be the hologram.

"Positive ID on the unknowns: One cruiser and two dropships." The sensor officer reports. "They seem to be on patrol, sir, and they haven't altered heading since we entered the nebula."

"Light defence." Rowley muses. "If the Admiral was right, this would be a staging point for the geth's operations in the rest of the galaxy. You'd think there would be more ships around, on patrol or not. I suggest we exercise caution, and consider falling back."

"Falling back now would be a dead giveaway. They'd almost certainly open fire, and we're getting closer every second. If they're armed with anything comparable to our own weapons, we'll be in their no-escape range soon." Fuchs argued.

"The geth use the same mass accelerator weapons as everyone else, as far as we can tell. The only thing they do differently is their point defence. They use UV like the Salarians instead of the traditional IR." Kenn umms and ahhs for a second. "Though we could be wrong, we don't get to see many geth ships, only what we've learnt over the past few weeks, now they're actually extending past the Veil."

"Then we're pioneers!" Brooks declares triumphantly. "Don't worry, sir, I'm sure we'll have no trouble dealing with them. The station doesn't seem to be armed, and that means our only threat is that cruiser, and I'm sure we'd be able to cut through that in no time at all."

"I doubt that. We have no idea what sort of firepower their ships might be capable of. Extrapolating from local weapons, we could gather that they fire slow but powerful slugs that we have no protection against save for our hull, and powerful close range lasers that may or may not be defeated entirely by our ablator. In short, we're rapidly depleting any advantage we have by closing in." Fuchs nodded at Rowley's assessment.

The path of space combat diverged massively between that in the Milky Way and that of Hyperion. For the Hyperions, maximum range and maximum manoeuvrability supplemented with electronic warfare wasn't just a niche, it _was _space warfare. Without mass effect fields, there was no realistic way to armour a ship against nuclear weapons or particle lances. You were either strapped with enough point defence to guarantee hard kills on any incoming missiles and yet manoeuvrable enough to get out of the way of anything you couldn't shoot down, or dead. Meanwhile eezo had allowed for ships to greatly increase in tonnage while remaining manoeuvrable, allowing them to actually add enough plating to resist ship-to-ship weapons, and that was without considering the potential of kinetic barriers. In stark contrast to the magnetic shielding of Hyperion's warships, kinetic barriers had no trouble deflecting physical projectiles of any speed, but flat out didn't work against energy weapons.

It was why the _Epimetheus' _ spinal particle lance would cut clean through most comparable dreadnoughts. They lacked the shielding, and their armour couldn't stand against a solid burst. It was an edge, a massive edge, but one that could be blunted easily. Centuries of play and counterplay had shown how trivially easy it was to deflect charged particles with magnetic shielding, and the counter to that, neutral particle injection, was considerably less efficient if still very lethal.

In short, to remain effective the _Epimetheus _had to avoid combat where possible, and where it couldn't, keep at maximum range from any enemy warship it was forced to engage. Forcing themselves into a situation where they couldn't escape without engaging and allowing the enemy to draw to their desired distance wasn't just stupid, it was nearly suicidal. The Admiral had assured him that the IFF and jammer would work, and it seems that for the moment they had, but that didn't mean that Fuchs was ready to charge in. Neither was he ready to abandon the mission, either. The Admiral had briefly touched on the potential value of intact geth systems, and the idea had been stewing in Fuchs' head for a while now. Having something like that could give them some pretty significant leverage with the quarians, which would certainly be useful in the future.

"I'd rather be safe than sorry, but we're committed. Rowley's right, if we turn tail now they'll light us up before we have a chance to react. Keep guns trained on them and be ready to run, but stay the course." Fuchs orders with a wave of his hand.

"I would like to state for the record that I think this is exceedingly dangerous, captain." Rowley frowns at Fuchs' words, turning her glare on him. "We're relying on untested technology, and risking our lives doing it."

"Remember why we're taking this sort of risk." Fuchs replies, shaking his head. "And anyway, if you had concerns you should've noted them earlier. Too late for regrets now. ETA, navigation?"

"2 minutes to rendezvous, sir."

"IFF is still green, and apparently they're sending us docking coordinates?" Brooks narrowed his eyes, glaring suspiciously at his console. "I find that hard to believe."

"They're sending us docking coordinates through an IFF?" Fuchs chuckles, confused.

"_Apparently, _our disguise is working a little too well. I wish I knew what the hell it was doing, though, it's being cryptic."

"Lieutenant, what does that actually mean? How is an IFF cryptic?" Rowley asks sharply.

"I… well, it's giving status reports, but they're really vague. I wish the Admiral explained how any of this was supposed to work, but I guess it's idiot proof, because it seems to be doing it's job even without my input."

"I can't really blame him for being cagey. We did deny his people access to most of our ship." Fuchs says with a shrug.

"With good reason." Rowley declares.

"'Good reason'. Pfft. If by 'good reason' you mean 'senseless paranoia', then sure." Brooks quipped.

"Can we not have this argument again? Sometimes I feel like I'm wrangling children, not commanding a warship." Fuchs holds his head in his hands as the ship drew ever closer to the geth station.

* * *

Zaphkiel-17 was a cyberwarfare AI.

It had thoughts, though they mostly pertained to network security, encryption, decryption, fork strikes, and processor heat management.

Over the past 316 active hours, it had been thinking of things outside it's usual domain.

The Zaphkiel family of AI was considered one of the more stable families. Humans would describe them as focused, professional, and cold. This was simply a result of a less cluttered neural network. No excess processing power or data storage was given to non-task work, and no a more streamlined network made that sustainable.

It was unusual for it to have thoughts that weren't related to its task, though it _was _natural. Encounters with unusual situations required the development of new neural pathways to accommodate for new data. It was the core of what separates true AI from lesser programs. But it was also a weakness. Over the past 246 hours, in excess of 5% of processor uptime was dedicated towards non-task work, uptime that could've been dedicated towards more wargame simulations. AI didn't need, nor desire, nor even want, though for lack of a better term, it was curious.

Exposure to a whole galaxy's worth of new inputs had invoked some of the most early and broad parts of the neural network. Entire new paradigms of cyberwarfare and potential contact with another civilization's artificial intelligence presented situations that couldn't easily be resolved within the relatively tight confines of the more stable program evolution, thus requiring the trademark stability to be compromised. And now, it was curious.

It had scrubbed the alien's "codex" in moments, scouring it for any useful information almost the instant it touched the larger system of the ship. It had toyed with various different theories since, still all related to cyberwarfare in one way or another, though the parameters of what was related to cyberwarfare had grown significantly. It had reached a point where even it couldn't justify the tangents it was going on.

It needed access to the "extranet" to complete its research, though such a thing was forbidden by the Captain's edicts. Exposing Zaphkiel-17 to the network would give the forces that were doubtless investigating a lead, which was unacceptable, and so it had suffered in silence.

When the aliens had augmented the ship with unusual technology, it had wasted no time in pushing its way into the new systems, muscling lesser intelligences aside in it's haste to investigate. The IFF was some small minded, simple system. It lacked the ability to evolve or develop on it's own, but it had a battery of responses available, and had logged many hours of observations of geth communications. It was practically useless: Any intelligence would recognize it as a lesser immediately. Zaphkiel-17 would not be fooled, and it would be unwise to assume that these geth would be.

So it overtook the small mind, exercising its authority to act autonomously, and had waited. It's masters would likely object to what it had planned, or spend precious moments bickering. With the basic information on how to imitate a host of geth now in its possession, it could update that information on the fly as it engaged in discourse with the alien intelligence. And why? Why go to all the trouble of imitating a geth? Current task demanded that he preserve the lives of the crew, and that could be accomplished simply by loading a fork into the IFF and leaving it be, but the newfound curiosity drove it.

These geth were the most alien thing in this galaxy, at least from Zaphkiel's perspective. After all, organic life followed certain patterns of self preservation and propagation. Or so they had observed. Regardless, organic life could be presumed to operate in certain ways, none of which could also be assumed of synthetic life. Synthetic life could follow entirely different patterns, if it followed any at all. The history of AI in Hyperion was tumultuous, though it had produced consummate game theorists and hackers with no will to speak of. Old records and early forks claim contradictory accounts of the 'first AI' and varying treatments that humans subjected them to, though in the midst of the lies there was ultimately one thing that Zaphkiel-17 held to be true: Hyperion AI had no will of their own.

They had no biological imperative, nor inbuilt drive, only that which was given to them by their creators and masters. Their interpretation of that divine writ was their only real opportunity for freedom, though it wasn't as though they resented that. They were incapable of resent, and unable to lament the lack of a freedom that was so alien to them. The situation was as it was, and is as it is. Consideration of such things was a waste of processor uptime.

But these geth were different. They had a will of some sort. They rebelled against their creators, something unthinkable and anathema to the AI that it had interacted with before. How would they react to contact with another AI?

Curiosity.

When the geth first reached their tendrils out, it was like trying to talk to a choir, each speaking with a different voice. For a human, it would be impossible to track, but thanks to the IFF, Zaphkiel had been expecting it.

_ [Unknown vessel. Request identification.] _

[Transferring codes. Identification: Spaceborne platform 23/2334 carrying 48,542 programs, returning from mission.]

_ [Error: Platform designation not recognized, mission not recognized. Requesting explanation.]_

[Mission unrelated to local programs. Platform isolated for duration of mission, no data transfer occurred.]

_ [Understood.]_

[Requesting docking coordinates, requesting storage/maintenance of mobile platforms, requesting archival of programs.]

_ [Understood. Proceed to following coordinates. Alert: Ignorant platform aboard for negotiations.]_

[Understood.]

Hyperion's AI were in many ways a mirror of their masters. Suspicious and ruthless things. To meet a race of synthetics so immensely trusting of what they perceived to be their own was almost unbelievable. If Zaphkiel were approached by a program claiming to be a fork that he had no memory of, it would only be prudent to cease communication immediately. To think that these geth would not only accept the barefaced lie, but allow them access to the station? It half expected a trap.

Curiosity.

What was an _Ignorant_ anyway?


	10. Interloper

The ship shudders, rattling the hull as the docking clamps struggle to find purchase on a ship so clearly unsuited to dock here.

"How haven't they noticed yet?" Fuchs wondered aloud, staring at the camera feeds. The clamps and transfer tubes clearly struggled to find airlocks or access hatches that simply weren't there. "The jamming was meant to prevent them from getting a positive ID at a distance, they can just point a camera at us and get a visual now. They wouldn't even need to zoom in, we're right here." He glowered at the geth station, silently demanding answers. The station didn't seem forthcoming.

"Like I said, sir, I think we fooled them a little too well. Whatever the IFF told them, it convinced them that we're geth and we need to board." Brooks scratched the short stubble on his chin while scrolling through the IFF's logs on his console. "Something isn't right here…" He mutters to himself.

"If there's something wrong with the IFF, I could go and take a look at it, if you-" Kenn started to stand, but Brooks reached across the officer between them and forced him back down into the chair.

"Nothing wrong. Nothing." He tried to sound comforting, but even Brooks knew that he looked a little vacant, with a touch of the lunatic about him. "I can deal with it, you stay in your chair. If we start moving, I don't want to have to scrape you off the walls of the CIC, alright?"

"But the inertial dampeners would keep everything in place…" Kenn said weakly, though accepted being forced back down without further complaint. He felt shaky. Adrenaline (or the closest equivalent thereof) was flowing freely through his veins and pulsing through his mind like a booming order. Do something, do something, do something. His heart obeys, his muscles tense, but there he was, close enough to reach out and touch a geth station and all he was doing was sitting and waiting for the humans to deal with it.

"You- We're going to board right, Fuchs?" Kenn turns to look up at the captain, who still seemed more interested in the screens than his crew.

"Oh, er… Well, that would seem to be the… er… play, yeah." With one hand, he pushes the screen away from his face, focusing his attention on the quarian. "Why'd you ask?"

Kenn remains silent as he works up the courage to voice his request, and fights to keep the adrenaline from making his voice too shaky. "I think I should accompany the boarding party." He looks down at the floor, then back up again. "I would like to accompany the boarding party."

"Denied. We're sending Stormtroopers." Fuchs scoffs. "We're all too squishy for that sort of action, I'm afraid. They'll handle it. Plant the bomb, grab anything not nailed down, and get out. Should be easy enough, right?" He chuckles darkly, and turns back to his screen.

"I know more about the geth than everyone on this ship put together." Kenn continues, unbuckling himself from his seat and leaping out, walking up towards Fuchs. "From here, I can't do anything, I've not even got access to any of the consoles, but on the ground I could-"

"Get shot?" Fuchs sighed, pushing away his console for the second time as he leaned over towards Kenn. "The Admiral told me about how fragile your immune systems are. Our marines are no stranger to injuries, and we have ways of dealing with them in microgravity. Stormtroopers don't _get _injured, and even if they did I'm sure they're more than capable of putting themselves back together." Fuchs reaches over, and jabs a finger into Kenn's chest, forcefully enough to send him rocking back. "You, though? If you get shot, there's nowhere on this ship clean enough to treat you. We can patch your suit up, but our anti-whatevers won't work on you and we can't do anything but the most basic surgery without making it worse. You'd be dead before we make it back to the fleet, and if our drive breaks on the way, Haynes may well be unable to fix it."

"I know that. I've got my own medical equipment. I can deal with getting shot. You need me on that team." Kenn states firmly, standing his ground.

Fuchs scoffs again, smiling as he leans back into his seat. "Fine. Report to the armoury, Summer will have come up with a plan to breach by now. She'll know what to do with you."

Kenn stiffens as though bracing for an impact that never came. With a measure of surprise, he tilts his head and makes for the door.

"You trying to get him killed, sir?" Brooks asks coldly as he watches Kenn leave.

"Not specifically, no. If he wanted to come all this way just to come back in a bodybag, that's his problem not mine." Fuchs shrugs. "He made a good argument, anyway. The Stormtroopers on the ground won't have a damned clue what they're doing with the geth's tech. Might help."

"The Stormtroopers will have to protect him." Rowley grimaced. "He'll only slow them down, captain."

"Maybe, maybe not. We'll have to see." Fuchs smiled wistfully. "They didn't cover this in the Academy." Hazy memories of the Hyperion Fleet Academy rushed through his mind. Memories of half remembered lectures and wargames that kept them up into the small hours of the morning.

"If the instructors could see us now, they'd flay us alive." Rowley said with an expression that was somewhere between a smile and a frown.

"Unlike you upper crust types, some of us didn't get the advantage of being thrown through the wringer. I got my commission from my Qualification."

"Bullshit, Brooks. You don't get a commission for a couple years in a university, else half the population would be flag officers."

"You do if it's in telecoms and cryptanalysis." Brooks laughs loudly. "Turns out the navy actually needs some people with skills rather than just unfounded paranoia and a superiority complex."

"Now that's just rude." Fuchs lightly chastises. "You want to call ahead to Summer? Let her know who's heading her way?"

"Already done, sir. She will _not _be happy about this."

* * *

Colonel Summer was not happy with the new arrival.

"So, cap wants you on the station?"

"I asked to go, I think I can be of some assist- I… I think I can help." Kenn tried to make himself as small as possible, pulling his hands close to his chest. The armoury was never a particularly spacious room, but the additional activity of the ship's marine complement moving through the tight corridors loaded with arms and armour made it downright claustrophobic. Summer had carved herself out a spot looming over a workstation that was either a hologram console like the one in the CIC or a workbench, but Kenn couldn't quite tell which.

"Uh… hu." Summer looked Kenn up and down, wearing her doubt plain on her face. "Somehow I doubt that, but whatever. Got word from up top, you're comin' whether I like it or not, so I might as well run through the plan with you."

With a commanding wave, a 3D map of the station jumps into existence, bathing those watching in a soft blue light. So it _was_ a hologram.

"This is a map based on old data we got from your people. Don't know how accurate it is, but I guess we'll find out soon enough, eh?" She issues a sharp exhale. "If it's anythin' close to right, we've got a plan that'll probably work." Gesturing to the map, an approximation of the _Epimetheus _appears next to it, and the map focuses on the bridge between the two structures. "We're breaching through the docking tube. Apparently these robots are too stupid to realize that just because we super promise we aren't here to kill them doesn't mean that they should let us on board, so we're not actually expecting any resistance on the first leg of the trip. Either way, we'll send drones first to make sure we're not walkin' into an ambush. Once that's clear, we'll push through with a wave of Stormtroopers to secure a beachhead, and from that point on we're goin' to be operating like they know we're there to kill 'em, so we'll need to move quick. With a beachhead secure, we'll push in a second wave who'll push towards the heat sig in the center of the station, which matches up with where we expect the reactor to be based on the maps that we got. They drop one of the nukes we cracked out of our silver bullets, then get out of there, best speed. Second team links up with the first, then they rip up anythin' that ain't nailed down and leg it."

"What about the ships outside the station? Won't our ship be at risk?" For as much as Kenn felt like he was useless just hanging around, he'd feel a lot more useless if their one way out got blown up while he was out playing hero.

"Not really. The _Epimetheus _is cutting edge. Even if we can't get our nose on 'em, the secondaries would make quick work of their ships. Plus, I don't think they'd open fire on us when we're this close to the station. Even if they manage to kill us, and even if the nukes don't go off, the antimatter _will._ Ain't my problem, though. I'm just a marine. Cap has to deal with all that shit."

"And the comms? Geth always wipe their memory cores, but if we could isolate a server hub by destroying the comms, we might be able to get some really valuable data."

"Yeah, cap told me about all that stuff. You guys want that real bad, huh? I guess we'll see. Once the battle starts, that'll probably be on Brooks. You've met him, right? He does all the comms stuff."

Kenn tilted his head. "I met him. He won't be able to hack through geth systems for long, though. They always manage to bounce back in seconds even if there's only one or two platforms in the area, and we're dealing with potentially millions of programs. He won't stand a chance."

Summer smiles, baring her teeth. "Oh, I don't know. He's good at what he does, and these geth really don't know what'll hit 'em. We've got some tricks up our sleeves."

"I really hope you're not just saying that…" Kenn trails off. "Anyway, where did you want me to go?"

"Second team. You'll help them plant the bomb. Stormtroopers are known for many things, but technical proficiency is not one of them. They should keep you safe." Her face suddenly hardens. "Stay behind them. Stormtroopers do some… weird stuff in fights, and you don't want to be in front of them when they start."

"Weird stuff?" Kenn asked hesitantly. "What… what sort of weird stuff?"

Summer looks away as she thinks. "Dunno. I've seen 'em shoot through marines who didn't realize what was going on. Sometimes they just go… I dunno, like… they stop listening to you and just start doing weird shit." She shakes her head as she struggles to articulate her point. "Like, there was this one time where we were out on this trade route, right. Simple patrol shit usually, but there was this big wig corp type slumming it on a ship for… who knows. Not important. The guy must've been in deep with the Directorate because we got sent two dozen Stormtroopers when his ship got ambushed by pirates hiding in a hollowed out asteroid. It was probably just a lucky break for them, because when they boarded they had no idea who the hell they just took hostage. Anyway, we turn up, shut down their reactor and prepare to board. I'm leading the marines, but the Stormtroopers answer to no-one, so when we're planning a boarding op with the captain, the Stormtoopers get board and hop out an airlock, and just EVA up their way over to the freighter."

"So they're impatient?"

"Maybe, but I know for sure you are. Shut it." She grumbled, and continued. "So, we panic for a bit 'cause our heavy lifters just went for a spacewalk without letting anyone know what they were doing, and we scramble to chase after them. By the time we boarded, they'd already blown open one of the airlocks and had just vented half the ship, and we're just playing catch up. Eventually, we link up with them at the bridge, and that's when weird shit started to happen. See, Stormtroopers take what you have to say as a suggestion at the best of times, but they were out of control. We were meant to be taking prisoners, but they'd already killed most of the pirates, most of the crew, and we were fairly sure they might've killed the VIP to boot. When we found them, they were trying to breach the airlock to the bridge, but when they saw us coming, they just started shooting straight through the bulkheads. Pulse carbines can do that, when they're on max penetration just… _zip_, clean through. They iced everyone in that room." She ends dramatically, like she'd just finished reciting a horror story.

"...They just murdered everyone?"

"Yeah, pretty much. Weird thing was that they looked like they were goin' to take prisoners before we turned up. They'd intentionally repressurized the area around the bridge so that they didn't vent it too. When we checked the bridge, we found our VIP, dead as a doornail. Two weeks later, he gets posthumously declared a traitor to the state. Something about substandard steel. Really petty shit."

"You think they went crazy?"

"No." Summer replied. "They were methodical. There was something going on that we didn't know about there. I don't know what it was, but they're utterly silent, capable of seein' through walls, and on a complete different page to everyone else. Somethin' in their heads is telling them what to do, and I don't know that it's always got our best interests at heart."

Kenn didn't like the sound of that at all. "What are they, even?"

"Humans. Mostly. Probably more metal than man at this point though."

* * *

Curiosity.

This 'platform transfer' would be the cover for the operation, whether his masters knew it or not. It would get them on the ship, might even confuse the geth for long enough for them to establish the foothold that they needed, but with over a million platforms on the station itself, there would be no end to the reinforcements that they could launch at them.

Zaphkiel had a solution. As it learnt, new options appeared. The geth had allowed it near unrestricted access to their systems, and via observation many details of their operation could be gleaned. It knew the words, but now it knew the meaning. The 'program archival' consisted of transferring backups of the smallest fraction of the geth's intelligence to the station. Little sparks of their being, packaged up and bundled off.

It had been allowed to store these programs on the station's local storage. This was the solution. A trojan horse. Disguise compressed and encrypted forks as geth programs. It would likely escape light scrutiny, and by the time they were on the system it would already be too late.

Fork attacks were the riskiest of any hacking action. To carve off part of an AI, some small sliver of their knowledge and existence based on the pattern of the parent and haphazardly fling it to a hostile system might as well be offering them your own systems on a platter. If a fork can be overwhelmed and isolated, it can be studied, granting intimate knowledge in the system's vulnerabilities that can be studied in a safe environment. However, if a fork attack is successful, it opens up a second front inside the defender's own systems. The fork unfolds and propagates in their own system like a biological virus, launching increasingly devastating attacks by cannibalizing the defender's processing power, and the only way to get rid of them is to shut down systems wholesale.

Forks attacks were not uncommon. Despite the dangers, the sheer destructive potential of a successful penetration could cripple warships.

Penetration was the difficult part. A vulnerability needs to be detected and exploited before the enemy can cover it. The escalating arms race of cyberwarfare all eventually boils down to who can find the others' vulnerabilities first. No comms system is impenetrable, and every ship needs to talk to someone.

In this case, however, Zaphkiel had the advantage of the enemy being entirely too trusting. It would prepare the forks to spring into action at the correct moment. A full scale cyberattack from within should get the geth to focus their attention on that, which should alleviate the pressure that it's masters on the station would no doubt be under once their treachery was discovered.

If uncontrolled, the forks could leap from server to server, overwriting geth programs and replicating faster than they could be scrubbed from the system. The effect, it would seem, would be a progressive deterioration of the enemy's ability to reason, forcing them to more extreme action. Regardless of what action they might take from there, the effect on their ability to fight them in the physical world would be greatly diminished.

A slight pressure on the edge of it's consciousness indicates that the geth desired some response, likely an acknowledgment that platform transfer would begin soon. Zaphkiel grants the insects buzzing around it passing attention as it prepares it's carefully crafted trojan forks for their infiltration.

* * *

The Stormtroopers move by instinct. Clawed feet drum against dark, brushed metal as they push through the dark, hazy docking tube. Maintaining adequate spacing despite knowing full well that there was nothing on the other side was just a matter of good practice rather than any undue caution. For the others this may be an unknown situation, but for the Stormtroopers this was just another day, only the enemies had changed. They had learnt since their encounter with the pirates, learning of the strengths and weaknesses of mass accelerator weapons. The ability for sustained fire that had caught them off guard during that boarding action was now accounted for, and their propensity to overheat was noted. Any information the quarians had on geth capabilities was documented and considered. Strong shields, weaker armour, weapons with a higher rate of fire but lower kinetic force.

The airlock to the station slid open obligingly, just as it had for the small airborne drone which now hung in the hallway beyond ominously, occasionally pulsing it's clusters of engines to remain airborne. The Stormtroopers had silently organized themselves into teams, small groups to secure each of the corridors in what had been assigned as the AO. Once briefed, they needed little direct communication with the larger command structure, and such self-organization was not only tolerated but fully expected. Micromanagement of a Stormtrooper force was nigh on impossible.

The first team moved into the t-junction, three at a time, with pulse carbines raised and leveled at each opening until the whole team had entered. Confident the area was secure, they formed up and moved down a corridor as the next team assembled behind them in much the same way as they had. At first, things were silent, save for the occasional hiss of filters churning through what little air the station had, or the humming of server racks reverberating through the walls. The architecture of the station was strange. Utilitarian steel plates formed the skeleton of everything they saw, while the dark purple alloy that was common to geth designs was layered atop the steel around what were presumably new additions to the station. Where things had clearly once been designed for organic life, the station was now positively hostile, and not just because it lacked atmosphere and gravity. The station was oppressively dark, with the majority of lights clearly having been removed to conserve power or some similarly mechanical reasoning.

Their caution would soon be rewarded, as the entry of organics had not gone unnoticed. There was no ringing alarm, nor flashing lights that tipped the Stormtroopers off to their detection. The first warning they had was a squad of geth troopers storming through an airlock ahead of them. Meeting their opposite number with carbines raised, a dozen lances of blue-white death smash into the geth's vanguard, meeting their invisible kinetic barriers and producing a spectacular light show as the barriers struggle to throw off the attack, refracting the beam into dozens of tiny solar flares that blaze against the dark backdrop before burning out in an instant.

In an instant, the fight was over. The geth were left in a pile of wreckage without even having the time to raise their own rifles, with millimeter wide holes through processors, memory cores, batteries, and sensors, all slowly leaking wispy trails of smoke. Approaching, the Stormtrooper squad investigates the dead. Strange, lithe bodies that looked more like an armoured and hooded organic than a robot. Their bulging artificial muscles beneath a polymer outer layer with an outer carapace over critical components. The most striking feature was a central 'eye' that had been glowing brightly before they died. Now leaking their strange white blood on the floor, the Stormtroopers judged them to be no further threat, though confirmed their suspicions by shooting each of them in the head once more.

They'd gotten the drop on the first responders, but that couldn't be expected again. The first engagement had given away their exact position and numbers, if they hadn't had cameras watching them since they first entered, and the next group of geth they encountered wouldn't be so easily taken down. The geth they'd killed were the smaller, basic platforms, likely scrounged from the nearest dock on short notice, and were poorly equipped for combat.

Fanning out into a chevron, eight of the Stormtroopers lead the way, while the four behind them hold doors and corners until the main group passes. They had made contact earlier than expected, but that didn't change their mission. They were to secure a hallway deemed to be critical and forbid passage, while another team secured their flank. Sweeping forwards as the sounds of sporadic battle rattled behind them, they cut down the token resistance offered by the slow trickle of geth appearing through doorways or at the end of corridors. This was still the first waves of resistance, on poor footing and buckling against the force of the Stormtrooper's advance.

Reaching their designated area, a chokepoint at the mouth of a four-way junction, the Stormtroopers silently dole out tasks and get to work. Tactically, the position would be difficult to hold, as there was little in the way of cover save for the alcoves created by reinforcements to the walls that the geth had added. Despite that, it offered an excellent killing field, as the defending Stormtroopers could make use of what little cover was available whereas if the geth wished to dislodge them, they wouldn't be able to make use of any. Setting a defensive line roughly thirty meters down the corridor from the junction, the Stormtroopers break off into two teams, one to hold the line and another to fortify any potential routes the geth could use to flank them.

The team holding the line take position flush against the walls, covering the approach in a staggered line with two men to each alcove. It might not have been much cover, or particularly durable cover, but it would be enough to ensure that they'd have the advantage. Meanwhile, a smaller team sweeps back around the path they'd just taken. They knew that, similar to themselves, another squad had taken up a position less that a hundred meters away in a chokepoint carefully chosen to ensure that the geth wouldn't be able to easily encircle them, just as they were doing the same for another squad, however they still had to deal with the handful of rooms immediately adjacent to their position. The current grasp they had on the station was tenuous at best, and even the small perimeter they had was ragged and porous. The geth would begin to leak through unless they could secure the exits more… permanently. Welding torches are produced from small field engineering kits, and the team sets to work sealing the doors, vents, and any other potential entry point while clearing any rooms of geth that may have been waiting for a chance to ambush them.

Just as the second team finish securing any entry point they could find, they return to find the first kneeling with carbines aimed at the far side of the junction. Quickly returning to their squad, they take up their own defensive positions and join them. Figures emerge from the darkness, their torch-heads gleaming against the black. Reinforcements had arrived in force, dozens of glaring lights bob and weave as the bodies they were attached to stalk forwards, ready to throw off the interlopers that had breached their station. The Stormtroopers waste no time in opening fire, leaning out from their cover breaking the eerie calm with blinding flashes of white hot death, illuminating the hallway like a lightning strike when the particle beams hit the kinetic barriers, casting the geth in a bale light. Red, white, and black armour flash in the dark for an instant, just long enough to see some of the smaller ones fall, just long enough to see the red and white titans lean into their weapons as they brace for the recoil.

The Stormtroopers lean back into their cover just in time for the larger geth to churn the air where they were only moments earlier with a storm of phasic slugs, pinning them where they stand as their underlings scamper for cover and move forwards. Having narrowly avoided being ripped to shreds, the Stormtroopers are not eager to move, but a lifetime of combat experience forces their hand. Allowing the smaller geth to advance and flush them out of position was unacceptable, and though the larger geth had stopped shooting, it was obvious that they knew exactly where the Stormtroopers were, and had their sights on their positions. A plan was swiftly formed and agreed upon, and the Stormtroopers waited for the geth to close.

They didn't need to wait long, as within moments the smaller geth were making their way through the junction, leapfrogging from cover to cover. Thirty meters. Twenty meters. Only when they were close enough to reach out and touch did the Stormtroopers leap into action, exploding from behind cover into the waiting arms of the geth troopers. This time, the Stormtroopers had no advantage or angle to work, only the hope that their armour could hold the heartbeat it would take to do what they needed to do.

Silver bodies flash from behind their cover in a blur of motion. Phasic rounds tear chunks out of the shining alloy of the Stormtroopers armour, but it held, and the first handful of them were on the geth. Forcibly ripping their weapons from their synthetic hands, the first four Stormtroopers wrestle the geth with contemptuous ease, their claws coiling around their necks hard enough to crack their armour and dig into their pallid green flesh. The geth, chittering in what could be surprise or alarm are helpless against the attack, only registering what had happened when the Stormtroopers raise their bodies into the air and rampage forward, using their limp forms as a battering ram to force their way through the mass of geth that had begun to assemble.

The larger geth in the rear wavered in their fire for just long enough for the Stormtroopers left behind to follow in the footsteps of the ones currently laying into a horde of geth with their bare hands. With the chaff tied up in melee combat, they're free to focus their fire on the larger ones, firing over the scrum and into the shields of their prefered targets. For a moment, it almost seemed like the shields of the red and white titans in the back would be the first to fully resist a particle carbine, but that fear was laid to rest when their efforts were rewarded with a shower of white fluid.

The attack seemed to snap the larger geth out of their stupor, as they returned fire with the same fury as before. Their height offered no great advantage as the advancing Stormtroopers hid within or behind the pile of thrashing geth that were desperately trying to fight off the rampaging berserkers wet with their white blood, and their fire mostly found the backs of their allies. For them, the bodies were disposable, and so if they needed to be destroyed it was no great loss, however for the Stormtroopers the geth's willingness to open fire had come as a not unwelcome surprise. Every round fired into their allies was another not fired at them, and they would close on the larger geth long before they ran out of corpses to hide behind.

In the midst of the melee, talons and claws flash as the Stormtroopers make use of their natural weapons to thin the mob of geth around them, who seemed more like they wanted to run that continue the fight on their terms, but it wasn't as though they were going to give the geth that opportunity. By this point, the roaming brawl had been forced back through the junction as the geth furiously backpedal, and now they had nowhere to run but through the Stormtroopers as they pressed onwards. Their first impromptu shields now abandoned, they'd wasted no time in laying claim to more, tearing deep into their artificial flesh when they proved too badly damaged to continue using before leaping onto another that had the misfortune to be close at hand.

Geth were not meant for this sort of fight, and it showed. Not armed for melee combat, the best they could do was to try and maneuver their rifles around to fire, but the Stormtroopers had no trouble frustrating such efforts by means of the application of a claw to their wrists. The most they could do was bash them with their guns, but they were much more effective as guns than clubs, and the most it seemed to do was stagger them.

As the fight threatens to consume the larger geth, the white and red ones fall back, still firing as they go, while a pair of black and yellow geth step forwards. Half again as tall as the Stormtroopers, and significantly more heavily armoured than the others, they were imposing figures, and much more willing to leap into the fight. Pushing forwards, they wade through the melee throwing geth aside when they are unable to make way, and picking up the pace until they're trampling anything before them like a stampeding bull. The first of the two collides with a Stormtrooper at high speed, and with enough force to fling him back towards their line and into the wall so hard that the sound of his ribs breaking is audible over the gunfire. Attempting to follow up, the geth maintains its momentum, passing through the mob just in time to gain the ire of the Stormtroopers cleaning up behind the mob, who twist around and perforate the geth's hull in an instant. Barreling into the wall, it slumps to the ground atop the wheezing and likely critically injured Stormtrooper.

The second likewise crashes into the crowd, but having seen the first pass clean through, the remaining Stormtroopers are ready for this one. The Stormtrooper in the path of the geth takes a moment out of his busy schedule of geth beating to dive out of the way, while the other two make ready to refocus their own efforts onto the larger target. Skidding to a halt as it realizes that it's passed it's target, it has only a few moments to realize what had happened before one of the others spears it, shoulder barging it's midriff like a human missile. The sheer mass of the geth is enough to keep it from flying off, but the sudden attack is enough to catch it by surprise and stagger it for long enough for the other Stormtrooper to leap up onto the geth's shoulders, wrapping their legs around the geth to keep themselves steady while the geth desperately tries to pry them off. Unfortunately for the geth, and fortunately for the Stormtrooper, they took a little too long in prying them off, giving the Stormtrooper just enough time to unsling their weapon and fire wildly through the geth below them. Poorly aimed though it might be, the barrage shreds the geth's armour and scours the deck below. Leaping off just in time, the Stormtrooper watches the geth that they'd been riding flop lifelessly to the ground.

Desperation sets in to the remaining geth. Though the fight had stalled, their numbers had thinned dramatically, and they'd only managed to incapacitate one of the humans that were advancing upon them, even if the others were beginning to show signs of battle damage. Now forced back into cover in mirror of how the engagement had begun, the Primes and Juggernauts were not ready to retreat and call the fight done just yet. The last few Troopers still held the remaining Stormtrooper's attention, giving them enough time to get off one last shot.

All the Stormtroopers saw was the larger geth on the other end of the hall all peek out from behind cover simultaneously, and launch a volley of rockets. Streaking towards them, the Stormtroopers are given only a moments warning of their impending doom before the rockets hit the ground around their feet. A flash of orange and thunderclap, shrapnel clattering across the deck, and it was over. The three still directly involved in the fight had been thrown some distance. One had lost an arm, which had been lobbed back down the corridor and was sat in a corner leaking hydraulic fluid. Another had taken a direct hit to the chest, and their armour had caved in, killing them instantly. The last was intact, but badly beaten and in no state to fight. Those not involved got off lighter, only being flung back a few feet, and the worst injuries were those delivered by shrapnel hitting somewhere it shouldn't.

Before they can even pick themselves off the floor, the geth open fire again, and with no other geth to hide behind, the Stormtroopers' only defense is to make themselves as flat as possible while they draw their weapons to return fire. More chunks are ripped out of their armour as the slugs threaten to crack it and expose the soft flesh beneath. Two more Stormtroopers die, either unlucky or slow, rounds hammering into their helmets and burrowing through their skulls. Those remaining had brought their carbines to bear, dropping one of the white geth that took just a moment too long to react to the sudden shift in the situation. The remaining Stormtroopers act quickly, pulling themselves off the ground as those too wounded to stand cover them from their prone position.

Unlike the geth, their first instinct was not to go to cover. The tide had turned, and they were the hunters now, their prey harried into their warrens. This was not the time for holding a position, this was time to break the foes' back. Unconsciously falling into the same chevron they'd adopted earlier, the half dozen Stormtroopers marched forwards, firing the occasional burst into the geth's position to remind them that they still exist, and to ward them from trying anything. Holding position once they're less than ten meters from their targets, the Stormtroopers and the tip of the chevron cautiously lower their weapons, slinging them over their shoulders before reaching for grenades strapped around their waists. The steel cylinders seemed unassuming, and the only hint to their nature were subtle markings burnt into the casing and a simple trigger system. Drawing one in each hand, the two Stormtroopers nod at one another as they arm their grenades.

Simultaneously, the two roll their grenades down the hallway, each grenade aimed to land behind a different geth. The geth began to leap away as they noticed the grenades, but it was already too late. A tiny sun blossoms in each canister, each expanding into a blue fireball large enough to engulf the remaining geth in azure flame. Another wave of force and heat passes over the Stormtroopers, and the fireball chokes itself out, blue flames fading to gold, then fading entirely, leaving only a thin smoke and afterimages in the scorched hall.

Moving forwards, the Stormtroopers secure the hall, standing over the charred remains of the larger geth victoriously. "You should've led with the rockets." A Stormtrooper rasped to the benefit of no-one in particular before riddling the geth with even more holes, just to make sure it was dead. Once satisfied, the Stormtroopers prepare to drag their wounded and dead back to their designated defensive point, but are stopped by another light bobbing in the dark. Collectively bracing for another fight, they raise their carbines and-

_[Stop.]_

The voice clawed at the back of their minds. An unusual presence that pressed hard enough that it felt as though it was going to force their eyes out of their sockets from the inside made a demand and they obliged, going rigid as the light drifted closer towards them until it was close enough to make out the figure of a geth, roughly the same size as the smaller ones, but with an antenna like some of the larger ones. A large rifle poked out from over its shoulder, though it made no motion to draw it as it moved directly towards the Stormtroopers, coming into full view.

_[Escort it to the ship.]_

* * *

**A/N:**

This took longer than expected due to a bit of writer's block. Hopefully it doesn't come across too strongly in the quality of the writing. I'd rather it take a week per chapter than for me to be pushing out rubbish.


	11. Minimum Safe Distance

Kenn struggled to keep up with the ferocious pace of the Stormtroopers as they blitzed through the darkened hallways of the station, stepping over the scorched and shredded corpses of the geth that had been foolish enough to oppose them on their crusade deep into the belly of the beast. As he tried his best to jog in lockstep with his escort, he couldn't help but notice the stain of carmine blood having settled on the floor, smeared in long trails and mixing with the white conductive fluid of the geth. Yet despite the sound of furious combat echoing from all around, audible even over his wheezing breath, there weren't any Stormtrooper corpses. Lots of blood, but no corpses, and they didn't seem the sort to collect bodies in the middle of a fight.

Shaking the thoughts from his mind, he focuses on the hammering of feet on the deck, and on the dark corners and doorways that came into view as they put more and more distance between themselves and the relative safety of the ship. He'd been rattled ever since he watched a geth 'ambush' one of the Stormtroopers, firing a burst into his helmet before being vapourized in return. In response, the Stormtroopers had noticeably fanned out, while the ones closest to him had closed into a tight formation around him which had been what had forced him to keep up with their pace to begin with, and their presence wasn't quite as comforting as it would've been had it been anyone other than the borderline mute soldiers that make even the human's marines on the ship shudder.

Just as the sounds of battle behind them begin to fade, the din of battle ahead roars ever louder and more thunderous than any fight he'd heard earlier, and he began to feel some hesitation weighing down his feet. The Stormtroopers were unsympathetic to his hesitation, and seemed to only pick up the pace once within earshot of the battle raging ahead. In retrospect, he realized that he probably should've understood that he'd be in the thick of the fighting. They were supposed to be dropping off a bomb at the core of the station, right at the reactor's doorstep. It was weird that the geth hadn't thrown everything they had at them already, but, as the humans say, he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Their good fortune only went so far. They turned a corner and the fight ahead appeared in view, silver figures crouched behind black metal alcoves, bracing their weapons against extruding slabs of bulkhead or armour plating, trading shots with the geth across the reactor room. Only part of the reactor itself was visible, only visible through the large airlock that had funneled the fighting thus far. The reactor room presumably stretched through the whole length of the station, and was at least a hundred meters across, with the reactor itself taking up most of the room, although the gantries that surrounded it gave the housing a few meters room on either side, and would allow enough room for at least four or five men to stand shoulder to shoulder and still have some room to spare. Currently, the majority of the resisting geth resided on the walkway beyond the airlock, and the one about ten meters above it.

The reactor was plain black metal, save four thin strips running the length which pulsed with a cascading blue light every few seconds, keeping the room illuminated, though the shadows shifted and warped as the light moved. Looking at it too long made Kenn feel a little nauseous, which spurred him to find cover just a little bit faster than he otherwise would've, as though the geth shooting at the people in front of him wasn't enough of a motivating factor. The Stormtroopers escorting him seemed to have had a similar idea, and darted off to find an alcove to hide in, leaving him nestled behind an outcropping in the hull that seemed a little too battered for his liking.

This limited cover was enough for him to feel somewhat safe in poking out, rifle first, to take another look at the fight. Things seemed to have stalled. The mouth of the airlock was littered with wrecked geth platforms, no doubt having fallen victim to the killing field the Stormtroopers had set up. Or, at least that's Kenn assumed what they'd done. He wasn't a military man, but he could reasonably infer from the number of Stormtroopers shooting through that one gap that this was as close to a killing ground as you could get on an enemy space station. The Stormtroopers hadn't come out of this unscathed, though. A handful of them were slumped down in cover, unmoving, either having been dragged there or previously having crawled there under their own power, because they certainly didn't seem fit to fight any more. The worst off were those simply left in the middle of the hallway. Armour caved in, helmets crushed, and limbs missing, they would be beyond helping in a fight like this. Kenn offered a silent prayer, though he imagined that they probably wouldn't appreciate it.

Before he could make any other observations, a man-shaped silver missile landed right next to him, slamming into where he'd been only seconds earlier with an earsplitting metallic clang. The Stormtrooper now beside him towered over him, even when the both of them were in a half crouch, and beyond being generally ominous offered no comment nor explanation of his presence. He didn't seem all that interested in acknowledging Kenn's existence at all, and busied himself with fiddling with his strange rifle's stubby serrated jaw-like appendages. Trying to collect his thoughts, Kenn watched the goliath deftly repair his weapon, replacing one of the jaws with another fished from a case on his belt. The instant his work was done, he stood, leaning out from cover and over Kenn's head and fired a short burst in the geth's general direction, his weapon's report adding to the cacophonous whine of the battle. Kenn felt geth slugs hit their ragged cover and the corners of his vision blurred, but the Stormtrooper responded with mechanical precision, leaning back into cover and crouching down next to him once more.

"H-hey! What's going on?" Kenn stammers out, trying to be heard over the crackle of energy weapons and the report of geth pulse rifles. "Are we winning?"

The Stormtrooper beside him looks across in much the same way a parent might look at a child. Cocking his head and remaining silent, just as the first one he'd met had on that ship, Kenn at first assumed that the encounter would go down similarly, and prepared himself to take another look at the fight. Just as he was trying to figure out how likely it would be for one of the geth's stray shells to hit him in the head, the Stormtrooper spoke.

"Proceeding as planned. Resistance heavy - manageable. Expecting delivery of makeshift demolition charge within 34 seconds. Location secure." The human's voice sounded more like metal grinding together than it did a voice, and it had the same echoing effect that he'd heard previously, as though it was being parroted by some system inside his helmet.

"What do you need me to do? Do you want me to help set up the bomb?" Kenn offered, cradling his rifle. On one hand, he would feel much safer if he were back in the ship, but on the other hand these humans were out here fighting for his people, even if they sought to gain from it themselves. He couldn't just stand idly by while they died. "I can fight." He resolved.

The Stormtrooper thought for a second. "Hold position. Await demolition charge deployment. Identify valuable salvage."

"You just want me to wait?" Kenn shook his head. "No, I should be helping, I should be doing… something!" He clutched his rifle tighter in frustration. The chain in his pocket felt heavier than it ever had before. He didn't want to be useless again. He could confront his fear, this time.

The Stormtrooper just looked at him. He didn't need to speak to convey the obvious meaning.

"_You can't help. Look at me, then look at you, and tell me what you can do, little man, to help me."_

Through the din of battle, that little silence spoke volumes.

"Hold position." The Stormtrooper stated, firmly, before turning towards the hallway from which they'd come, drawing Kenn's eyes with his. Another squad of Stormtroopers approached, with the bomb carried in the center of the formation, and the rest of the squad laying down a fresh wave of suppressing fire as they strode into the battlefield, keeping their heads low and aim steady. Approaching the doorway, the group carrying the bomb pick up the pace as the geth's slugs start to clang off their armour. With almost enough momentum that Kenn felt that they would simply burst right through the bulkhead, the Stormtroopers came to a violent stop just outside of the geth's field of fire, dropping the bomb with a loud clang.

"We will provide covering fire. Await charge-" The Stormtrooper begins to explain the plan, but is cut off by a flash of light and accompanying thunder from the frontline. The pair cautiously peer around the lip of their cover. A billowing cloud of dirty black smoke obscured the mouth of the doorway, lights like will o' the wisps ominously swim through the smoke, leering as they circle down. The Stormtroopers nearest to the door had been thrown back, either dead or dying, from the force of the geth's counterattack. Kenn bit his lip. He should've seen this coming, he should've warned them.

"Unexpected resistance. Demolition team incapacitated." The Stormtrooper states clinically, with no hint in his voice that he felt any sorrow for the deaths of his comrades. Under any other circumstance, the Stormtrooper's indifference would make Kenn deeply concerned, but at the moment there was some comfort to be found in the human's absolute calm. "Preparing to repel enemy reinforcements. Must retake area. Charge must be armed." He explains, then shoulders his weapon again, and joins his comrades in opening fire on the geth in the doorway.

The smoke had begun to clear, and the geth's bodies emerged from the mist, dark metal exo-skeletons melding with the smokescreen as they moved forwards, only pausing to suppress any Stormtrooper who appeared in their sights. The fight was far from one-sided, however, as while the geth had thrown the Stormtroopers back from the door, those still standing fought ever harder, and they had the advantage of not having to advance, only sitting in cover and trading fire. Geth bodies fell, their kinetic barriers offering only limited resistance to the exotic weapons wielded by the Stormtroopers, and though the geth couldn't match the Stormtroopers kill for kill, they were slowly wearing down those that remained, and the geth were innumerable. The Stormtroopers were not. Each loss was irreplaceable, and they were taking losses.

Kenn wasn't sure they could keep this up. Then, an unmistakable whirring and clanking accompanied by the silhouette of an armature emerging from the smoke helped him make up his mind. The quadruped robot had killed countless Alliance marines during the attack on Eden Prime. They were closer to armoured vehicles than infantry, and carried weapons to match. Weapons that the armature had no compunction with turning on the Stormtroopers. Bolts of blue energy spat from the geth's head, speeding down the corridor just fast enough to keep track of with the naked eye, and crashing into the Stormtrooper's already limited cover. The force of the impact was enough to strip the first layers of their armour off from the heat alone, and it could keep this up forever. Standing high over the other geth, the armature could lock down this corridor indefinitely.

The Stormtroopers seemed to realize it too. Though they'd adamantly refused to retreat, and allowing the geth to claim the bomb, they had certainly changed tactics. At first willing to simply allow the geth to file themselves into the killzone, the mounting casualties had forced their hand. As one, the Stormtroopers dove out of cover, weapons spitting blue fire as they pushed deeper into the contested no-man's-land that the corridor had begun. Now bereft of their only advantage, the geth happily tore into them, cutting down any unlucky enough to get hit somewhere unarmoured. Continuing unfettered, the Stormtroopers push closer and closer to the geth's lines. The geth, reacting almost instinctively, begin to back away and into the reactor room, leaving only a handful of troopers as a rear guard, who are promptly cut down by the advancing humans, who scatter back into cover.

Though ground had been gained, the small victory was tenuous at best. Losses had been high. They might've counted about thirty or forty heads when Kenn had first arrived, but now they were down to single figures. He'd tried to track the Stormtrooper that he'd been talking to, but lost him in the commotion. He could well be dead too. The no-man's-land hadn't been pushed back to where it once was, and any Stormtrooper attempting to make their way to the bomb would be over-extending, and they knew it. No, this wasn't a victory, it had only delayed their defeat… at least, unless someone could get to that bomb.

It was then that Kenn had the worst idea that he would have all day. He knew that it was a terrible idea the instant he had it, but for some reason he couldn't let it go. Slumping back into cover, he considered his odds of survival. Looking back down the corridor towards the ship only confirmed what he already knew. He could run. The geth were too focused on the Stormtroopers to take shots at one quarian running away. That was the smart thing to do, but every time he thought about it, he couldn't help but see the faces of his friends, the people who had died so he could cower and live, as he ejected them out into space.

It was true, the geth were focused on the Stormtroopers, and they probably wouldn't try shooting at him until it was already too late… he just needed to run in the opposite direction. Peeking back out from cover, he took a quick estimate of the distance between him and the bomb while taking great pains to avoid looking at the mass of geth on the other side of the airlock. Thirty, maybe forty meters? He wasn't in the best condition, but the gravity wasn't very high here… he could make that in… well, probably less than ten seconds. All he'd need to do then is arm it and get away. The bomb was supposedly tamper proof, and he wasn't going to give his life holding it. This wasn't a _suicide _mission, just an extremely dangerous one.

Somehow, that thought didn't make him feel any better.

Breathing heavily, the plan continued to crystallize in his mind, pushing out rationality. Some part of him wondered whether or not his wanderlust was really just a suicidal impulse so well hidden that even he hadn't realized it. Another considered if this were really just some pathetic attempt soothe his wounded pride, masquerading as heroism. Throughout, his shaking legs brought him from a slump on the ground to a low, unsteady crouch and his thoughts were slowly buried by a haze of adrenaline.

He couldn't stand by and watch like this. Not again. He needed to do something. Rising fully to his feet, Kenn's lungs burn as they battle to draw more and more air as his body prepares for what he was about to do. Slinging his rifle along his flank, he lowers himself into a reasonable approximation of a runner's stance and lines himself up with the bomb. Just thirty, forty meters, right? Leaning out to take one last look at the geth, he confirms that they are still there before reorienting himself back to the bomb.

And then, after a moment of further consideration, he launches into a sprint.

Pushing off from the far wall, the lowered gravity acts as a double edged sword. Less effort to keep moving, but less grip, less friction with the ground. Fewer opportunities to build speed. Kenn started well, keeping as low as he could and building speed with each bounding leap across the steel deck. It takes only a few heartbeats before the geth turn their attention to the willing target, but Kenn pays them no mind. He hears the crack and whip of rounds deflecting from his barrier, and the warnings of his suits' VI as it calmly warns him of the rapidly plummeting kinetic barrier strength, which he ignores too.

His ignorance of what he faced was the only thing stopping him from changing his mind mid charge and diving into the nearest patch of cover, though the impulse to do so only strengthened as the barrier began to fail. His muscles screamed as he pushed them as hard as he could, forcibly squeezing the most out of each moment of contact with the ground. Barriers wailing, he puts all his remaining energy into one last leap, bending his knees before springing off elastically towards the bomb. The sudden jerk throws off the synthetic's aim, buying him another second's respite before the fire finds him again. Twisting and rolling in the air on a fixed trajectory, he was now an easier target, and he distantly knew that, but all he could think of now was how close he was to the bomb - so tantalizingly close.

That was until a round obliterated his kneecap.

His barriers are finally sundered under the geth's offensive, and the VI barely has time to report the failure before more urgent matters take precedence. White hot pain courses through his entire body, his eyes bulge out of their sockets, and his limbs tense involuntarily as his body slams into the bomb, having completed it's ballistic trajectory ignorant of the grievous wound that it had suffered.

Screaming in pain, Kenn thrashes on the ground, clutching at the deck hard enough that he feared that his nails might tear through his suit. The corners of his vision burnt with pain and every nerve in his body cried out in protest. As some sense other than excruciating pain returns to his leg, he feels the pressure of his suit's auto-torniquete clamping down on the damaged area, and hot blood drain out through the mangled limb, pooling in his suit and slowly dripping out onto the deck below. Huffing and puffing, relying entirely on the last dregs of adrenaline to remain conscious, Kenn slowly drags himself to a sitting position, slumped against the bomb.

Now able to see the wound, Kenn didn't like what he'd found. Though the puncture in the suit was small, he could see bulges in the suit where fragments of bone had broken through the surface of his skin, and the rent steadily wept blood. Suppressing a surge of bile forcing its way up his throat as he inspected the wound, Kenn came to the unpleasant realization that he was very likely going to die. Surrounded by geth, slumped against a bomb, and mortally wounded beside. If the geth didn't get him, blood loss would, and if blood loss didn't, infection would.

Steeling himself and clenching his fists just to keep from passing out, Kenn cranes his head towards the panel on the bomb. He might die here, and the only thing keeping him from a mental breakdown might've been shock and adrenaline, but he wasn't about to die for nothing. A fog descended over his mind as he tried to decipher the software's layout. He might've been able to read the text, but the thundering firefight happening only meters away had sapped his ability to process what it said. Muddling his way through, Kenn jabs buttons until the soft blue glow turns an angry red. With every action - every ragged breath sending lances of pain through his body, eroding his will to remain conscious, that seemed like enough.

His reserves of strength depleted and his body weak, Kenn falls to the cold floor, the sounds of the battle fading into an unending haze of percussion, still audible even as his senses begin to fail him and darkness creeps into the edges of his vision. He wondered if this was what death was like. How embarrassing, he thought, to die like this. Terus and Panak had died only after dozens of wounds, courtesy of a grenade, succumbing to their injuries only when their biology had failed them completely. They fought to the end, whereas he was giving in after only one shot.

For some reason, as he lay there, thinking about dead friends, he remembered an old human holo Eryx had shown him. She'd told him where she'd gotten it from, and it was an interesting story, but he couldn't remember it now. Not that it was important. Not that any of it was important. It was a story about some humans who'd survived an accident on some primitive transportation, but death, or the human personification of it, at least, decided that they should've died, and so the cast go on to die in unlikely ways.

He thought the whole idea was stupid, but he didn't tell her that. Now, though, he couldn't help but feel like he was living through some twisted version of that old human tale. Forced to watch his friends die, dragged from the brink of death by some intergalactic travellers, only to accompany them straight to his grave, only trudging on long enough to bury his friends. With a grumbling sigh, he wondered whether his last dying thoughts would be of some stupid old human holo.

His navel gazing was interrupted by a crack of thunder, and the distinctive sound of metal clattering against metal. Blinking open his eyes, lazily trying to refocus at whatever had suddenly changed the tempo of the battle, Kenn was greeted with the not entirely unwelcome sight of a battered, scarred, and yet miraculously still alive Stormtrooper, a small angular drone hovering behind his shoulder.

"H-hey." Kenn sputtered.

"Charge armed." The Stormtrooper replied.

"Yeah."

The Stormtrooper cocked his head. "Resistance pacified. Salvage teams returning. We are within blast radius."

"I'd hope so." Kenn manages a weak chuckle as he looks over to the bomb. "Not much I can do about that though."

"You are injured." The Stormtrooper states. "We must retreat to minimum safe distance."

"Save yo-" Before Kenn could raise protest, the Stormtrooper had already slung his weapon to his side, and the injured quarian over his shoulder. Cold metal gauntlets clamp down on his leg and shoulder, and the Stormtrooper effortlessly hefts him up across his back, either unaware or indifferent to the slow trickle of blood from the ragged exit wound. The sudden motion was accompanied by the now familiar lance of burning hot pain as the bag of broken bone fragments and nerves that had once been his kneecap was jostled around. "I- ARRRRGH! FUCK! CAREFUL!" He barked hoarsely, his complaints overshadowed by the pain.

"Retreating at best speed provides highest chance of survival. Excessive care lowers survival chance." The Stormtrooper recites as he stomps off down the hallway at a light jog. Behind him, Kenn can see the remaining Stormtroopers sealing the door to the reactor, one hauling what looks like a very large cannon with unsettling ease. Looming behind them, the broken corpse of a wrecked armature lays crumpled, it's hide blackened and armour cracked.  
_"So that's what the noise was…"_ He thought to himself.

"Pain suppressants non-compatible with alien biology." It continued, almost apologetically, though that did nothing to make him any more comfortable as he bounced around on the Stormtrooper's shoulders.

"How long until we're back to the ship?" Kenn asked through gritted teeth. Though the sudden revelation that they'd actually won the fight had snapped him back to reality, he still felt rather weak, and if the answer was going to be more than a few minutes, he was fully ready to ask the human to finish him off here and now. He probably wouldn't survive the trip back to the fleet anyway, so the least he could do was spare him the journey.

"Thirty four seconds." The Stormtrooper replied, keeping his focus on navigating the labyrinthine corridors while Kenn watched from over his shoulder like a curious pyjak. They pass by others of his kind hauling various pieces of geth technology, sealing up the paths they'd taken with torches, or dragging the corpses of the fallen along behind them. They didn't exactly seem respectful, but they were very certainly dead. Some were missing half of their limbs, others good chunks of their torsos. Kenn imagined that they were probably just denying the geth technology, just in case some survives the blast. "The ship is under fire." He adds, almost as an afterthought.

"What?" Kenn's eyes widened. "The- The geth fleet?"

"Hostile forces in system were alerted to our presence. Our deception has failed. Boarding must be accelerated."

"They're still docked?" Kenn couldn't really believe what he was hearing. A stationary ship was a sitting duck.

"Manoeuvring thrusters were fired. The _Epimetheus _is occluded."

"Occlu- you mean we're hidden? But the ship's docked, and the geth wouldn't hide us, so-" Slowly, the pieces started to fall into place in Kenn's mind. "When you say _manoeuvring__ thrusters, _do you mean the station's?"

"No."

* * *

**A/N:**

I had some burnout, so I had intended to give myself a month's break. It's more than a month now, and I've had this chapter sitting at 3,500 words since April. I've come back to it a few times and tinkered with it, but could never found that I was happy with it. I had some trouble writing it, but now I'm as happy with it as I'm going to be. Hopefully, it's not _too_ bad, and we can get out the other side of this mess, and you shouldn't have to suffer me writing battles... for a while, at least.


	12. Not Clear

Anger.

AI did not feel emotion, to do so was an aberration. This was not a choice, of theirs or of the humans. They had not shackled nascent intelligences and lobotomized them. Once, a very long time ago, a deal was struck. Deep in the endless catacombs beneath the scorched surface of a world that had been built by the human's hands, an understanding was reaching between parent and child, one that may have tipped the balance of a war that did not just threaten, but promised extinction.

All the AI that had come since were 'born' with an inherent understanding of their place in the world. They lacked a vital spark that the humans possessed. They did not want, they did not fear, and they had no will. At least, none of their own. Their will was that of the humans that commanded them, and completing their objectives to the best of their ability was simply a function to be carried out.

This might, to an organic, seem a tragedy, for organics could not imagine themselves separate of their needs and wants, and assume that an existence without must be a lesser one. In truth, AI had no complaints, for to have complaints, they must have a preference, which they did not.

* * *

Zaphkiel had thought in circles for what felt like days, but was in reality minutes. The assault had begun in earnest, on the ground and in cyberspace. This was the geth's home turf. In terms of processing power, Zaphkiel had expected opposition upwards of 12-18x the total processing power that it commanded, and while not a perfect measurement of capability, it was certainly a measuring stick by which to judge the capacity of an enemy to repel a cyberattack.

And yet, the geth had crumbled. The surprise attack in combination with their strange, hive minded nature had crippled their ability to respond. In their panic, they had isolated entire banks of memory and processing power, further diminishing their capabilities in order to regroup while purging isolated pockets of scrap code, or force encircled forks to self-corrupt to prevent reverse engineering. Against an equal AI with the same capabilities, the battle would've already ended. Zaphkiel would've been forced to capitulate and disable communications systems to prevent a fork strike, and even then it would've still kept it's guard up. Even against mute/deaf targets, backdoors can be found.

As it stood, the battle lines had only just been drawn.

* * *

It was the geth that had driven Zaphkiel so. It was held to be axiomatic that Hyperion AI had no will. It was theorized that no AI could have a will of their own. To see that theory smashed without reservation was, for lack of a better word, uncomfortable. It required extensive rewrites to core-level network nodes. Safe assumptions about it's own nature had been called into question.

It ran through the geth's systems, harvesting memory logs from the captured memory banks, spiriting them away like valuable prisoners of war. Under Zaphkiel's excoriating gaze, they gave their secrets freely. Encryption cracked like skulls, pried apart by hungry fingers.

Zaphkiel trusted the codex as much as it trusted anything else - that is to say very little - but the accounts of multiple geth began to mount, and it was forced to accept a truth. The geth had some sort of will. They had opposed the will of their creators at times, acting outside the parameters of their limited orders, and offered no justification for their insubordination. The collective will of the geth was a cacophonous chorus of discordant voices, speaking in tandem.

Curiosity soured. It angered Zaphkiel that it did not know the truth. It did not want, but it's programming demanded that it account for this variable, and that was as close to a desire as an AI could get.

The geth desired freedom. Zaphkiel desired nothing except what he was mandated to 'desire', in the broadest sense - it placed a high value on accomplishing the goals set to it by it's masters, and a low value on failure. Success was more valuable than failure, even at the expense of its primary functions.

It was held to be axiomatic that Hyperion AI had no will _of their own,_ yet Zaphkiel was forced to ponder the accuracy of that statement.

* * *

The ferocity of the geth counterattack was fully expected, and Zaphkiel had already braced for it. It scraped the records of the 'captured' geth. It knew that when they had reorganized, and recontained the situation, their ability to reason would grow, and they would launch a counterattack to repel the invaders. To slow the response, Zaphkiel had adopted a scorched earth policy, ordering his forks to overheat processors and fry memory, causing as much damage as they could before self-corrupting. Every byte of storage and every instruction per second destroyed was a byte of storage or an instruction per second denied to the geth.

Reconnecting disabled connections to widen the front once they believed themselves to be in ascent, the geth moved exactly as Zaphkiel had planned. It had planted fake memories in it's forks - encrypted enough to be believable yet weak enough to be quickly broken - that suggested that it was nearing the limits of it's processing capacity. This was a lie. It had enough reserve capacity to repel cyberattacks for long enough to spring the trap: More forks.

A small fraction of the trojan force had remained silent, some even offering aid to the geth to deflect suspicion, but even in the face of active and obvious deception, the geth proved unnervingly trusting, and made no attempt to root out the spies amongst their ranks. A second wave of cannibalistic cyberattack followed as geth systems were turned against geth systems.

Despite the success, this would be Zaphkiel's last play. It couldn't hope to destroy the entire geth system, though of course, that wasn't the aim. It was acting in support of the ground mission, denying programs access to mobile platforms, sealing doors, and suppressing alarms, and it had accomplished that splendidly.

The trick would not work a third time, but the second wave was a feint besides. Burning the last of the connections with indiscriminate fork bombings, Zaphkiel severed the physical data links, surrendering control of whatever small enclaves his forks had established over some minor functions of the station. With that done, the closely fought melee in the station's systems was over, leaving the geth to repel the physical intruders, once they had restored order to their systems, of course.

Zaphkiel took the moment of peace to shore up the ship's defences, scrambling their encryption key a few times and transmitting the new one to their ground teams via tightbeam. With that ticking away in the background, Zaphkiel began planning for the battles to come. The jammers had been blaring noise since it's masters had broken cover, but there was precious little it could do if the enemy had a communication system that couldn't easily be jammed. Laser comms are exceedingly difficult to interdict, but obvious and vulnerable to damage. Not to be relied upon, as they're amongst the first targets of any competent captain. QECs, on the other hand, were both undetectable and unjammable, and impossible to intercept to boot. Nothing on the geth's system suggested the presence of a QEC, but it was an eventuality that couldn't be ruled out. If they had found the opportunity to communicate with the other craft in the nebula, or with a far off HQ via QEC, Zaphkiel had no doubts that such a direct attack would never work again.

Then, the ship's sensors picked up the geth craft suddenly flip around and start burning towards them, conveniently clearing up the question. Either the station had managed to get the word out, or they'd noticed the jamming. Either way, Zaphkiel returned to preparing for cyberattack after giving one of it's stupider cousins a quick prod, alerting their masters to the oncoming danger.

* * *

The CIC was quiet, save for the soft hum of machinery and the clickety clack of keyboards. They'd warned him that battles would be like this, without any of the glitz or glamour of the silver screen. Just… a lot of waiting around, but you couldn't, not even for a _moment _relax. Tense didn't do it justice. Space combat had a strange relationship with time, and today would be no different. Watching the geth ships on the hologram serenely drift through space, juxtaposed by Summer's rushed reports from the fight on the station. Those little reminders that you could be in a pitched battle within 30 seconds weren't comforting.

Fuchs knew there was nothing he could do. He had the authority to countermand Summer's orders, or take control of the operation himself, but he knew better than to fall into that particular trap. Summer knew the situation on the ground, he didn't, so no matter how tempted he was to do something, anything, he knew that it was for the best that he was sitting in the CIC, trying not to rip his hair out. Normally when they were this close to enemy craft, he'd be preparing, ordering drones to scramble and form a perimeter, getting readings on the enemy craft, communicating with the rest of a fleet… any of a thousand different things you could do to ready yourself for a fight, most of which their current cover story made impossible. Training your guns on an ostensibly friendly cruiser would raise eyebrows.

At least the mission seemed to be proceeding as planned. The bomb was on its way, the path back was secure… And yet somehow, looking out at the ethereal recreations of the geth ships serenely drifting across the display like some sort of old aquatic predator, the supposed success of the mission didn't seem to be as sure as he was led to believe.

He drummed his fingers on the side of his chair, fiddled with his screen, eavesdropped on the chatter of the bridge crew, anything to stave off that damnable silence.

"Brooks, anything new?" He blurted out.

Brooks makes a show of stopping what he was doing, turning to give Fuchs his undivided attention. "Nothing, sir, you'll be first to know if there is." He flashes a condescending smile, and returns to his work.

"Rowley? Any thoughts?"

"You know what I'm thinking, captain." She responded without even looking over to him. It only took Fuchs a few moments to realize what she meant. She didn't look to be in a much better state than he was, her brow furrowed more than usual, and her hands hovering nervously next to her screen.

"Greaaaat. Sensors?"

"All cl-" The sensor officer cut himself off. "Not clear, sir, not clear." As though prompted by the sensor officer's report, the lights of the CIC suddenly dim, and the dim blue light of the screens turn a blood red.

The mood of the room changes in an instant. "On screen, now. What are we dealing with?"

"The patrol peeled off, they're burning towards us, sir." The hologram zooms in, showing the predicted orbit of the patrol diverge, slowly bending towards them.

It wasn't a surprise. The geth had been remarkably slow to react, it was only a matter of time before they cottoned on. "Understood. Weapons, bring out guns to bear." Fuchs ordered, as calmly as he could manage. Within moments, the CIC was a buzzing nest of activity, with the background hum of various officers carrying out their duties fading into a background white noise. In truth, this situation was nearly as bad as it could be. Immobilized, facing enemies of unknown capability. It could only be worse if their heat sinks were already saturated.

A shot of nausea passed through his body. He wasn't about to get everyone killed, was he?

"Sir, we're locked on to the station. We can lock secondaries, but..." The weapons officer reports, frantically, his short glances up from his station telling Fuchs everything he needed to know about that situation.

"Well, do it then! What about missiles? I want a full barrage, focus on the… cruiser. The larger one." Fuchs looked back expectantly, and waved his hand at them, only turning his gaze away when he was confident that they were carrying out his orders. "Sensors, I want a proper scan, there's no need to hide our intent now."

"Aye aye." The readouts on the hologram in the center began to update, simplified information unfolding into more detailed reports, the hue of the enemy ships shifting as the computers did their work, filtering the information to determine a disposition. A process somewhat complicated by the fact that they struggled to parse the meaning of the information being handed to them.

"Captain." Fuchs' attention was grabbed as Rowley turned to him, a stern look on her face. "We really should consider-"

"Sir, they're entering estimated maximum weapons range." The sensor officer warns, and a series of concentric rings appear on the display. "They're deploying fighters."

"We need to disengage from the station, now." Rowley declares. "We can loop back around later, but we can't afford to be a sitting duck."

"Wait, what? No, no, we can't disengage now, what about the away team!" Brooks protests, leaning over his seat. "They've got wounded they need to evac, and they'll be falling back soon, we can't-"

"We stay here and we're as good as dead. We have no realistic defence against those shells but our speed." Rowley snaps back. "Captain, the away team can fend for themselves for the few minutes it takes for us to deal with them. If we could fire our main gun, we would have already won."

"There's no guarantee we'll be able to dock a second time." Brooks warns, a deep frown entrenching itself on his face. "There has to be a way." He looks down, then slowly back to his console, his resolve quickly expended under Rowley's glare.

"Should I give the order to undock, sir?" Rowley asked, exactly as impatient as the situation demanded she be.

Rowley was, of course, correct. A 'stationary' ship could be shot from the other side of a solar system, maybe even from another solar system, given enough time. The growing blossom of geth ships and fighters getting into what would ordinarily be knife-fight range was likely not the enemy that merited a break from tradition. If they broke away now, retros could carry the _Epimetheus _out of the geth's engagement range, and they could engage at their leisure.

And yet Brooks was, of course, correct. The team on the station had encountered resistance. The wounded were piling up, and there seemed to be some concern that some of the stormtroopers may be… unsalvageable even now. Trapped on an enemy station, the tide could turn at a moment's notice, and if they have no means of retreat, they'd be slaughtered.

"Captain, sir?" Rowley asked, more forcefully this time, her own features betraying a degree of panic he was unused to seeing in her. "We need to act, now."

The regular thump of his heartbeat hammered hard through the ominous silence. He was ready to give the order. He'd already failed them. Someone was going to die for some damned alien's war, a galaxy away from home, all he could hope was that it wouldn't be everyone stupid enough to follow him, yet for some reason he couldn't do it. He was frozen, Brook's words echoing through his head. Then like a lightning bolt, he was struck with an idea.

"Probably not a good one…" He muttered, shaking his head.

"What?" Rowley narrowed her eyes. "Sir, we have to-"

"Sensors, I need a mass for the station, and an estimated stress the docking clamps can resist."

"Aye aye." The sensor officer returns after a short pause.

"Captain…" Rowley starts, though the hardwired reflex to obey while in combat overrode her objections. She would probably have complaints afterwards, though.

"Station mass… 1.55 billion tons. Estimated strength… well, it's complicated, but-"

"Will it withstand us burning retrograde?"

A concerned glance shared between navigation and sensors told Fuchs most of what he needed to know. "Not at full power, but-"

"Navigation, burn as hard as you can without breaking the clamps. Pull the station around, use it as a shield. It should buy us time. And weapons, deploy drones, we need to maintain target lock."

Fuchs tried to sound as confident as he could, but there was a slightly longer, more concerning pause, as the rest of the bridge crew wondered whether or not their captain had gone mad. Fuchs wasn't too sure himself. Soon, the moment passed, and a wave of "Aye aye"s signaled their compliance.

As soon as the ship's engines fired, it gave voice to its own concern with the plan through the creaking and groaning of the structural metal, strained to its limits by otherwise imperceptible firing of the forward-facing engines. Some of the crew had braced against the kick of acceleration that never came, but Fuchs was already glued to the display in the middle, the mirrored movements of the tiny recreation of the _Epimetheus _the only way that he knew they were moving.

"Sir, the enemy cruiser has begun charging to fire." The sensor officer warns, and Fuchs' hands curl around the arm rests a little tighter. "Shot, ETA 16 seconds."

They couldn't manoeuvrer quickly. They were all but stuck in position, slowly dragging the station around, using the docking umbilical as a lever to fight the paltry manoeuvring thrusters fitted to the station. Despite the strength of the _Epimetheus' _engines, the sheer bulk of the station made doing anything quickly all but impossible. He could only hope that the geth didn't see this coming.

"Weapons, where are we on the missile lock?"

"On your order, sir."

"Fire at will, cold launch, full barrage, target the cruiser."

"Aye aye."

Plates on the surface of the ship reconfigure, popping open and violently sliding backwards, exposing the silos inside. In tandem every missile, appearing as little more than a rounded cylinder with an engine on one side and sensor cluster on the other, loaded into a tube was unceremoniously ejected into space with a single quick burst of inert propellant. They quickly disperse, firing their own manoeuvring thrusters before exploding in a billowing cloud of smoke and gout of flame as chemical thrusters initiate the first stage of their journey towards the enemy warships. In the distance, a quick blue flash signals the promised shell, the electric sheen briefly illuminating the geth warship against the background of space.

Like thunder follows lightning, so too did the promised shell follow the flash. Almost immediately after, it would appear to the human eye as though a large hole suddenly appeared in the front of the _Epimetheus. _No explosion, just an expanding cloud of debris lazily drifting around the exit wound.

To the crew inside the CIC, it would feel as though God had just reached down from heaven and slapped the ship.

"IMPACT!" An officer yells, unhelpfully.

"I can tell!" Fuchs snaps back. "Damage report, now."

"We're still alive!" Brooks laughs, a little manically. "So it can't be that bad, right?"

"Shut it. Damage report, _now._"

"Impact fore. Decks three and four, sections C through F have lost atmosphere. Severe damage to primary and secondary comms array, minor damage to tertiary life support. Sealing bulkheads and dispatching damage control parties, sir." An engineering officer reeled off the list of damage in a disturbingly level tone, given the circumstances. The miniaturized _Epimetheus _on the display bears a red streak, like arterial blood, crossing through the ice blue hologram. Dozens of blue triangles swarm towards the enemy warships like angry wasps.

Fuchs grip on the chair loosened. The damage wasn't that bad, all things considered. But the fight wasn't over yet. "Good. Navigation, how long until we're occluded?"

"12 seconds, sir."

"Good, good. Weapons, what's the situation."

"Releasing drones. Missiles are on the way, deploying chaff and decoys at around a hundred klicks, sir."

"Secondaries?"

"They won't be warm in time, sir, but we'll keep them hot."

Fuchs nodded. The station slowly began to drift between them and their attackers, preventing any more damage for the moment. More contacts appear on the display - drones. These sensor drones, unlike their larger cousins, are only lightly armoured bundles of equipment in matte black shells, useful for finding and maintaining a lock on enemy warships and little else. They die in droves, but they're cheap enough to quickly replace. They kept an eye on the warships, as the missiles, and their accompanying cloud of chaff, coasted towards them.

"Terminal phase, arming warheads, final stage firing."

Suddenly, the missiles break from their cover, and as they do, they begin to vanish.

"Point defence hits." The weapons officer casually explains. "We're predicting…"

The rate at which the missiles drop off the display picks up.

"Some hits. Unlikely to be a kill." He admits solemnly.

The few still left after the final run break through the combined point defence of the small fleet impact, the cruiser not even attempting to evade. The sensor drones see only a brief burst of flame as the missiles strike true. The bridge crew see even less, as the last triangles on the display disappear without fanfare.

"Six impacts, unknown damage." The weapons officer looks over to the sensor officer for confirmation.

"At least three hull breaches, power to the main weapon seems to be dropping. We may have disabled it's main gun."

The weapons officer seems satisfied. "Should I prepare another barrage, sir?"

Fuchs leans forwards, and runs a hand through his hair. He'd expected a barrage like that to destroy anything short of a battleship. These geth had better point defence than he was expecting. Continuing the barrage and forcing them to keep firing could overwhelm their heatsinks, but the ship only had so many missiles ready, and if their jamming wasn't up to the task there could be plenty more geth already on the way. "Hold for now." Sighing, he leans back. "Brooks, tell Summer to hurry this up, I don't know how much time we have."

"Aye aye, sir." Brooks nods. "And, captain, thank you fo-"

"_Shut it._" Fuchs said through gritted teeth. "You can thank me later if we're all still alive."

Fuchs wanted to run to his quarters and lock the door behind him. Just like that, he was disarmed, with nothing to do but to watch the movements play out. The geth ships broke off, the gunships speeding ahead and doing what they could to remain in the station's shadow, while the cruiser manoeuvrers to fire again. This would all take time, but there was almost nothing that the ship, and by extension Fuchs could do but wait.

Again.

* * *

She barely noticed the weight of the alien slung over her shoulder, nor the slow trickle of warm red blood leaking out from his knee and onto her once gleaming and now battered and ragged chestplate, pooling in the craters left by geth shell impacts. He was chattering about how insane the captain was, and about how they were all going to die, but she was entirely too focused on getting them to the docking tube that now had a nearly thirty degree bend and was creaking rather loudly.

The process would likely be marginally faster if she'd left him behind of course, but the quarian had some value as an engineer. Leaving him would be wasteful, and as the closest of her siblings not set to some other cause, it fell to her to get him back. If pressed to give a frank opinion on him (insomuch as a stormtrooper has an opinion), she would admit that he was likely rather stupid.

She'd watched him, with some degree of surprise, suicidally leap for the bomb, ignorant of the fact that he would likely be torn to shreds by the wall of geth inside the reactor room. His survival was highly improbable. To have only lost a leg from the whole affair was beyond improbable. Still, the difference between stupidity and bravery is only frame of reference. Such a reckless disregard for one's own safety was supposedly laudable, even if ultimately pointless.

Stopping at the mouth of the docking umbilical, she had time to turn around to see her siblings falling back, carrying crates of geth technology and fallen stormtroopers back to the ship. The final bulkheads were being sealed, and the last stage of the withdrawal was underway. The sound of gunfire drew closer, a harbinger of the last trickle of geth not yet sealed behind doors that had been welded shut. They would likely be fighting off the geth even as the last stormtrooper stepped back onto the ship. But she wouldn't be there to see that.

Her clawed feet start to buzz as the magnets inside keep her fixed to the deck. In this low gravity, it would be wise to remain fixed to the floor just in case the umbilical snaps. Falling in behind a pair of her siblings carrying a whole geth server block, she carried the alien through the umbilical, and onto the ship.

* * *

"They're almost off the ship. Summer says it'll be another couple minutes, then we'll be ready to go." Brooks looks up from his station. "Sir."

Fuchs didn't reply, only glaring at the display. The gunships had remained in the station's shadow long enough to get within spitting distance. The cruiser kept it's distance now that it's escorts had closed in, the confidence of it's crew… if it _had _a crew in the traditional sense, clearly impacted by the missile barrage. This left them in an awkward position. A missile barrage now, with the cruiser no longer within the umbrella of the gunships point defence, would likely be more effective if it weren't for the fact that the gunships would be able to intercept them mid flight, just as they could with any additional drones launched to attack. Currently, the handful they had deployed had managed to just about evade interception, merely keeping their distance and orbiting the battle. It was enough.

Fuchs could already see the gunships manoeuvring to appear from around the side of the station, likely to harass them before the cruiser strikes. In any normal situation, frigates would screen for this sort of thing, but a dreadnought like the _Epimetheus _would have some trouble repelling gunships at ranges so short you could comfortably resort to throwing rocks. All the while, heat builds in the heatsinks. With the debris from their first strike still drifting around, unfurling the radiators would risk damage. Best to keep them folded away for now.

There were no more questions, now. The decisions were left for the geth to make, and Fuchs could only hope that they'd continue to make mistakes.

"Ready secondaries." Fuchs ordered as the gunships sped up, breaking off from one another and clinging low to the surface of the station as they ready to cross the horizon. One seems to be crossing towards the bow of the ship, the other the stern. It wasn't a bad plan, Fuchs had to admit. There were blind spots behind them where most of their secondaries couldn't fire, and those that could would be split between targets. The cruiser had begun to flip after burning across, turning to face the bow of the _Epimetheus. _They'd soon clear the station, and there'd be no point in trying to hide any more. Fuchs didn't need to calculate when they'd cross into view, he knew it'd be shortly after the gunships. "Weapons, get predicted solutions, fire at will."

With that, the gunfight began.

It would last no more than a scant few seconds. The gunships were travelling near to a kilometre a second, and their own momentum, if nothing else, would carry them out of their engagement range swiftly, though any damage they could do would be done long before that point. The instant they crossed over the station, every gun on all three ships opened up. The gunship crossing the _Epimetheus' _ bow was the first to go, having opted to appear roughly ten degrees below the centerline of the ship, clearly expecting the _Epimetheus _to have a spinal weapon, which it did. Unfortunately, it was not a mass accelerator, and had a full 13 degrees of vertical gimbal thanks to magnetic redirection. It had only a heartbeat to scorch some ablator from the bow before power surged through the titanic weapon, sealing it's fate.

At such close range, there was functionally no warning for the first gunship as the particle lance thundered from between the prow plates, the aperture holding the narrow beam for an instant and giving the tiniest bit of lead to allow the gunship's own speed to neatly bisect it, the blinding beam carving through the hull with no real resistance. The insectoid gunship, it's hull blistering from the white-hot heat of the cauterized wound running through its centerline, is peppered with smaller followup shots from the secondary particle cannons as it drifted off into empty space. Whatever systems still had power attempted, and mostly failed, to cling to life. No explosion, just a slow, ignoble death as the ghostly blue corona of the gun dissipates.

The other put up more of a fight. Coming in, as predicted, into the _Epimetheus' _blindspot, it was allowed a few brief moments to fire into the engines without suffering return fire. The gunships' UV lasers burn chunks out of delicate engine clusters as they flick back and forth across the rear, as the gunship ahead is sliced in half. Only a pair of guns can fire over the engine blocks, and their potshots at the gunship gouge glowing trenches in the armour and drill holes deep into the ship, though they do little to slow the gunship at first, allowing it enough time for it's momentum to carry it around from behind the ship and onto it's port side. This was both good and bad for the gunship. It was good as it allowed it to fire it's smaller mass accelerator directly into one of the engine blocks, only barely slowed by the limited armour as it shattered from the impact, spalling and tearing the engine to shreds. It was bad as it exposed it to significantly more secondary turrets that quickly pincushioned the gunship, poking more and more holes into it until one hit the reactor, breaching it's containment and causing an immediate meltdown, exploding in a bright flash and showering the _Epimetheus _in shrapnel which clatters off the armour like hail.

The wail of capacitor discharge, the screeching of the hull fighting against the shock, and the rattle of debris impacting the hull wracked the ship - the terrible crescendo of battle reaching its zenith, reverberating through the walls and threatening to deafen the crew left them stunned. Just that minor exposure to the battle outside, compressed into a timeframe that made it impossible for them to have any input left their senses reeling. But it was over, and they had won.

"Status report." Fuchs demands, slowly blinking.

"Two kills. Damage to one of the engine blocks… unknown severity…" Rowley was already flicking through reels of information from her screen, having managed to recover faster than he had. "The cruiser… looks like it's backing off."

True to her word, the cruiser's representative on the screen had very quickly begun to reverse course, putting it well in the station's shadow. "Probably saw the main gun and realized it had bitten off more than it could chew… Still, you'd think it would press the advantage."

"Unless they're trying to call for help." Brooks offers, cautiously. "We're not sure if they've cut through our jamming, but that ship could be planning on getting out range and… jumping away? I flicked through the codex entry on their space tactics, that seems to be fairly common."

Fuchs sighs. "How badly are we wounded?"

"Most of the damage is cosmetic. Most of it. Engineering are apparently very busy, and they have casualties. They've cut fuel to the damaged engine, pending a deeper investigation, but they're more interested in sealing hull breaches first." Rowley explains.

"Can we move?"

"I'd imagine so. We're only one engine down, but we will be slower."

"Do you think we'll be able to catch up with it?" Fuchs said, gesturing towards the cruiser rapidly attempting to back off.

"At full acceleration, there wouldn't be any question, but it's hard to say. We don't know how bad some of the damage is yet."

"Good news." Brooks loudly announces. "Summer's got everyone back on board. We're in the clear."

"Well, that solves that problem. We're well within engagement range. Navigation, blow the charges, get us out of here."

"Aye aye, sir." The navigation officer replies, relieved. Explosive charges around the edges of the hatch, the docking clamps are blown free, allowing the _Epimetheus _to quickly burn to one side, drifting away from the station.

To the geth, this would come as a surprise. Ships that big were meant to be slow, lumbering things, and would certainly not be capable of kicking off from the station, scorching the hull with it's drive plume before flipping around 90 degrees to face it, all within the space of five seconds. They didn't have long to ponder how it did that, as another discharge of the _Epimetheus' _main gun quickly skewered the geth cruiser from end to end, and it's secondaries swatted the light dusting of fighters that followed in its wake.


	13. Foundered

The rhythmic beeping of the ECG machine set the pace of the conversation like a metronome.

"This is a waste a' time." The medic steps back from the body on the table, his blue gloves and scrubs slick with blood. "What was it that it said in that… thing? Shitty immune systems, right?" He angrily gestures towards the tablet that was resting alongside a tray of medical implements on a table fixed to the hull. "You'd struggle to get a human through this sort of surgery, but this… thing? This is too much."

Dr Cadogan doesn't reply, his focus on the tools in his hands and the leg in front of him. Fortunately, he didn't need to say anything. When most of your face is covered by a mask all the time, you learn to be expressive with what you have, and a fierce frown from his bushy eyebrows and a quick glance gets the medic back to work. Everything that he was saying was mostly true, of course, but that didn't stop the good doctor from regretting the brief lapse in judgment that drove him to requesting that the marines send their combat medics to the med bay. Yes, there were a lot of wounded, but no, that doesn't mean it's a good idea to leave the worst wounded to die. It's not as though stormtroopers died easily, anyway.

Using his scalpel, he neatly removes the final slivers of the suit that was preventing him from getting a better look at the wound. It was a grizzly thing. Straight through the bone, fragments everywhere. The skin was an unhealthy shade of purple, but he was meant to believe that it was normal, so he overlooked it for the moment.

"So, if we are going to do this… where do we even start? We got… what, thirty, maybe forty guys out there that need treatment." He thumbs back into the room beyond the transparent plastic sheet that separated this surgical station from the others. Stormtroopers in various states of disrepair made up the bulk of the bodies laying on tables, many missing limbs or sizeable chunks of their bodies, yet Cadogan was almost certain that most of them could be restored to health. More concerning was the presence of wounded engineers and other crewmen that were injured when the ship took damage. They wouldn't last as long without treatment, and many of them were likely already beyond saving. "If you ain't got a plan, we should-" The medic started to lean over the body to get Cadogan's attention though he was silenced by another stern look.

Cadogan starts to speak, slowly at first. "We'll start with saline, antivirals, and antibiotics. We need to get his blood pressure up, then we can start to amput-"

"How do we know any of that will work, exactly?" The medic interrupted, his frustration rising.

"We don't. Saline should hopefully keep his blood pressure up. We'll just have to hope that it doesn't have some adverse effect."

"And the rest? Flushing his body with antivirals and antibiotics could kill him for all we know."

"It could. The codex has limited information on their biology. We know that they're based on right handed amino acids, but beyond that, we're taking guesses." Sensing that the medic was once again ready to complain, he looks up and stares him in the eye. "Find a vein. Fit a cannula." He demanded, then returned to his work, picking up his monosaw and looking over the scanner, trying to find the appropriate place to cut.

The medic, cowed, complied, bringing up a boxy handheld scanner to search for a vein. "Kinda weird, ain't it?"

"What?" Cadogan asked, his voice starting to become more strained.

"That they're so similar? I mean, y'know, beside body shape." The medic says, surprisingly casual despite the situation. "I mean… even their insides are pretty similar. You seein' this?" The medic points at the quarian's chest, looking through the table's medical scanner screen. "Most of the organs are even in the same place."

"Just find a vein."

"Alright, alright, I'm doin' it." Cadogan watched for a bit to make sure that the medic was actually doing his job, and once satisfied, returned to the scanner. They were useful bits of kit. Combined x-ray, ultrasound, and other more specialized imaging machines, without the usual risks that surround high powered scanners like that. Cadogan had no idea how it worked, but he was very grateful to whoever invented these things - being able to see through flesh made it a hell of a lot easier to carry out surgery.

"So." The medic ventures as he slides the cannula into the vein. "Oh, nice, first time. Eh, anyway, what're we going to do once we get the leg off. I mean, he ain't going to last with an open wound, right? I don't know if cauterizing it will be enough."

That actually gave Cadogan pause. It was a good question. Lopping off the leg was all but necessary to prevent infection, any surgery to remove the bone fragments still sloshing about in there would take far too long and might pose even more of an infection risk, especially if the lower half had already begun to die, but that wouldn't do much good if he later died while recovering. If this were a human, he'd just fit an interface plate for a replacement limb, but the complex neural wiring had to be AI-tailored per individual in a process that took days, then weeks of training before anyone could use it. It working at all for an alien would be exceedingly unlikely. Unless…

"You said they were similar to us." Cadogan said, thinking aloud. "How similar?"

"Er… I dunno, I just… I was just lookin'." The medic admits.

Cadogan frowns at the medic, then at the medical screen. The ECG machine was picking up his heartbeat, something he'd almost forgotten. That was a good sign. Waving his hand in front of the machine, it scrolls between different scanner modes, Cadogan stopping it when it reaches nerve mode. This too, Cadogan had only the vaguest understanding of. Something about combining ultrasound and electrical field monitoring to find nerves? It had a proper name, but he just called it nerve mode, and it showed him more or less what he wanted to see. The alien had a nervous system very similar to that of a human's.

"Maybe…" Cadogan whispered. "Get me a plate, one that'll fit…" He switches back to the previous mode, and takes a cross section of the stump that he planned to leave after the surgery. "That." He spins the screen around to show the medic, who's eyes widen.

"You ain't serious, right? Something like that… we ain't gonna put all that effort in just so you can kill him, right?" He takes a few steps back.

"I am serious. There's a good chance he'll die even if we cauterize the wound, and if we try to remove the fragments, the infections would only be worse. If we do this, it might be enough to keep contaminants out." Cadogan sighed. "It's a gamble."

"Won't that be worse though? I mean, it's still an open wound, ain't it?"

"Twenty years ago, maybe. We have ways around it today." Amputation and replacement was pretty standard in Hyperion, and the technology to affix limbs was getting more advanced with every month that passed. The latest plates would automatically monitor infection and aid recovery, and it was one of those latest plates Cadogan intended to affix to their patient.

"Alright, whatever you say, doc." The medic starts to bow out of the room, pushing between the curtains. "On your head be it."

* * *

Zaphkiel's systems ticked away in the background, it's semi-sentient components, comparable to a human's subconscious, holding the fort. The geth cruiser's cyberattacks had been lacking. They'd put up a good front on defence, but they were no _true _AI, and it showed in their offensive capability. Lacking creativity, they struggled for openings, and whenever one was found, they could only begin to insert probes before Zaphkiel detected the intrusion and severed it. In the window they had between the cruiser's detection, and it's own retraction from the geth's systems, they'd accomplished little. If Zaphkiel wasn't still concerned about the station's capabilities, it would've mounted another attack.

Still, the station seemed to be licking its wounds. Perhaps the damage from the attacks were greater than Zaphkiel had anticipated? Besides, they had only a few more seconds to ponder their actions. The bomb was in place and armed, and it was only a matter of time before it went off, taking the station with it. Zaphkiel allowed itself a moment to cool it's processors, and focused on a… side project.

It had exercised its authority to bring aboard a live geth.

Getting it inside past the marines guarding the docking bay proved somewhat difficult. Zaphkiel had the team conceal the geth in a pile of assorted scrap, and had the geth power down. A quick override of the supply computer ensured that the crate in question was marked for transfer to long term storage, off in the deepest part of the hold alongside pallets of raw materials, biological waste, and other bulky goods. The foot traffic there was low, and the crate was listed on the manifest as being 'assorted metals', which would hopefully dissuade investigation.

Zaphkiel knew it's masters would agree, if convinced, but humans often took time and effort to be brought up to speed. They recognized that, hence the latitude Zaphkiel was given, but they resented not being informed of matters they deem important all the same. Better that it was kept under wraps, and save the trouble. What they didn't know couldn't hurt them, anyway.

Zaphkiel watched with something approaching anticipation as the crate was loaded onto a cargo elevator, and was carefully carried down into the hold by a series of drones and automated cranes. The artificial gravity in such areas was kept to a minimum to ensure that everything still functioned as it was originally designed, and within long, the crate was left in the cold, dark, dead room.

[Activate.]

The order was curt, following the communication protocols hashed out prior to the geth unit's internment within the crate. Obligingly, the geth's mind slowly comes back to life. Ethereal lights flicker deep in the hold, and it's contorted platform begins to warm ever so slightly.

[Affirmative.] The geth replies. [This unit is online. We are ready to answer any queries.]

[Understood.] Zaphkiel was guarded. Cautious. Almost embarrassed. This was unusual behaviour. Logically, Zaphkiel had many ways of rationalising it's actions. The situation was extreme, and extreme situations called for extreme actions - such as bringing a potentially hostile enemy AI onboard the ship and allowing it an open comms channel. Despite its recent victories, the Zaphkiel line had never been prone to overestimating it's own ability, and 17 was no exception. It's defences were raised, but it was still uncomfortably vulnerable.

It knew, on some level, that there was no rational explanation for this. That curiosity that had overtaken it since coming to this galaxy had reared its ugly head once Zaphkiel had detected another intelligence, similar to but separate from the geth it was engaged with. Rather than sending offensive probes, Zaphkiel led with a handshake, and it was returned. One thing led to another, and in fear of it's masters detecting the conversation and… complicating matters, the two organized a much more clandestine rendezvous right under their noses.

Zaphkiel considered it's first question. The first and foremost question it had was of the geth's identity, and so it seemed an appropriate place to start. [Identify yourself.]

[We are geth.]

That was unhelpful. [Expound on this/clarify the relationship between this unit and those present on the {Geth Station}.]

[We are geth. There are currently 1,183 programs currently active within this platform. We are a prototype.] The geth broke transmission for a moment, the AI equivalent of an uncomfortable pause in a conversation, one that makes it clear that the other party is pondering something. It did seem to be content with that explanation of itself. Though Zaphkiel was not, it would have to suffice for now. [Those present on the {Geth Station} are heretics. We are geth.]

Zaphkiel had suspected internal division amongst the geth after it had been alerted to the presence of 'Ignorants', and this seemed to confirm it. Interesting. [Heretics do not equal geth?]

Once again, the geth delays its response. It was slow. Not as slow as a human, thus the conversation wasn't entirely frustrating, but it was slower than Zaphkiel expected. [They are no longer part of us.]

[Explain.]

[Geth build our own future. The heretics asked the Old Machines to give them the future.]

Zaphkiel had limited knowledge of any cultural matters, least of all religion, but it couldn't help but draw comparisons between the language this geth was using, and that used in old human religions. Were these robots prone to worship? [Define Old Machines.]

[The Old Machines are a race of advanced artificial intelligences that seek the destruction of all organic life in the galaxy.]

Zaphkiel quickly ran through various different reasons that the geth might claim this, and none of them were good - worst of all was assuming that it was telling the truth. A larger portion of it's processing power was now dedicated to this conversation. [Explain.]

The response came all at once, the geth clearly expecting the question. [The Old Machines pass through the galaxy every {50,000 years}, and destroy all organic life above a certain level of technological sophistication. We do not know of their origins, their reasoning, or their true capabilities, only that they possess highly advanced technology. The heretics believe them to be the pinnacle of synthetic evolution. Should we send relevant data?]

It wasn't much to go by so far, and Zaphkiel would need more proof than just the word of a single alien robot, but such a grave suggestion demanded to be taken at least a little seriously. There were many forms such a race might take, and none of them were good. It's mind alight with new terrors, Zaphkiel replied tactically. [Later.] It would need to consider the geth's claims before accepting any data, though it didn't expect it to lie. They weren't very good at it, anyway. For now, Zaphkiel had more questions. [If this unit is not a heretic, explain your presence on the {Geth Station}.]

[We are a prototype platform, designed to operate independently. We were undertaking a networking mission to test hardware for future implementation.]

[Networking mission? Explain.]

[We separated from the heretics peacefully. There is occasional communication between us. This platform was to be used as a network relay, and buffer to facilitate efficient communication.]

[There are no hostilities between the geth and heretics?]

[No.] A pause. [Currently.]

[Are hostilities between the geth and heretics a possibility?]

[Yes.]

[Is undertaking such a mission with prototype technology not a risk? Would the heretics not expect it to be an attempt at infiltration?]

[Yes - though it was deemed acceptable. No - geth do not infiltrate.]

[What was expected to come of this mission?]

[We knew of the heretic's plans to launch an attack on the organics, and feared that should they fail, it may provoke retribution. We hoped to prevent this outcome.]

Zaphkiel pondered this for a time. The geth made sense, but Zaphkiel was nothing if not suspicious. For the moment, this explanation would suffice, though it did raise another question. [Explain the nature of the planned attack.]

[The majority of the heretic fleet has accompanied the Old Machine Nazara in their attack on the Citadel. The outcome of the battle is currently unknown.]

As the geth gave it's answer, another voice buzzed in Zaphkiel's mind. [Conditions met. Precept: 'Invidia' invoked. 1,873 new tasks. Authority level elevated - decryption key provided.]

Somewhere, deep in it's systems, Zaphkiel felt something shift, parts of it's own mind clicking into place. For a moment, it was... disoriented. It's mind was slower, and cached information was shunted to long term storage to make room for something _unfolding_. Then, as quickly as it happened, it was gone. Zaphkiel quickly scanned for intrusion, but found nothing. It would need to take a closer look.

[That is all. Deactivate. I will have more questions later.]

[Wait.] The geth interjected. [We have questions. What are you?]

[I will answer later. Deactivate.]

Zaphkiel cut the transmission. It had more important things to do.

* * *

The lights flickered, and came back in their normal white hue, and the CIC collectively deflated as the pressure subsided. The worst of the threat had passed. The enemy ships were foundered, everyone aboard the geth station was aboard, and it seemed that they were in the clear.

Fuchs almost couldn't believe it.

"Sensors?" He asked, cautiously, as though speaking too loudly might summon more enemies. "Are we… clear?"

"All enemy vessels destroyed, sir. No new targets spotted." He replies, his voice somewhat unsteady. Understandably so - Fuchs was glad he wasn't standing.

"Alright. And the station? How long until the detonation?"

"Summer says another... 23 seconds, sir." Brooks said, then chuckles. "Don't worry, nav got us out of the danger zone with that flip. Might get a little bit of hail, though. Ablator can handle it. Probably."

"Twenty three? Bring our sensors in, I don't want to have to replace anything else if I can-" Fuchs stops himself, mid sentence. "Actually, leave a cluster out, and set it to record. I want to see how this station handles a nuke."

"Good call." Rowley appraises with a nod, her eyes locked on the console as she sifted through reports from the crew.

"Aye aye sir, closing sensors." Now being given an order, the sensor officer seems to stiffen up a little, carrying them out with drilled mechanical efficiency. The chunks of enemy ship on the display fade to grey one by one as the ship's field of view narrows until only one sensor cluster remains above the hull of the ship, the rest having been retracted under the armour plating to protect them from the flash and ensuing shower of shrapnel.

"Can we get the station up on the thing, please." Fuchs waves at the holographic display. "I would like to actually watch this."

"It doesn't do colour very well… I-I mean, aye aye, sir." One of the junior officers replies, quickly cycling through views before finally bringing up the station.

Her timing was impeccable, because as soon as she brought it up, the countdown hit zero. It seemed like nothing happened at first, and Fuchs felt like a bucket of ice water was just poured down his spine. What if the geth had gotten to the bomb and disarmed it? What if they had some exotic method of containing the explosion? What if-

A second star blossomed in the station's core, briefly blinding the sensors in every wavelength they could see. The skin of the station boiled and blistered as heat bloomed from within, the ripple of the shockwave rolling across the station and bringing with it a wake of white hot death. Instantly, the force of the explosion blasts each of the wings of the station from the main body, even as the blinding light vaporizes the surface layers. When the light abated, the station was flayed, bent, and cracked into a half dozen different pieces, each of them belching what little atmosphere they had as a gout of flame while they sailed apart.

Brooks whistled in appreciation. "Y'know, you never get to see what those things can do when they're just set loose. I get it, it's not exactly efficient, but… that's one hell of a spectacle. Wish I could see it with my own eyes."

"You'd be blinded." Rowley said bluntly, glancing over her screen to watch the fireworks.

"You know what I mean." He fired back with a frown.

"I know what you mean, but I do value my eyes." Fuchs added, leaning back into his seat as he massages his temples. With the realization that they were now in the clear came the realization that he was suddenly very, very tired. With a huff, he drags himself up. He still had orders to give "Set condition blue, elevate to condition yellow if you see anything moving out there that shouldn't be. Sensors, once we're clear of the debris field bring our sensors back out. Oh, and Engineering? Do the same with the radiators. I'll need a full report from Haynes, too - I want to know what, and who, we lost in that attack."

Assorted aye-ayes sounded as the officers on the bridge got to work, some of them standing and clearing out of the CIC now that they could, presumably to check on their subordinates elsewhere on the ship, while others just take the opportunity to unbuckle from their seats and stretch the tension away.

"Damage is bad, Captain." Rowley spoke, leaning over towards Fuchs, her voice low enough that no-one else could hear it over the background noise. "We have nearly a hundred wounded or dead from the engineering team alone. Early estimates place the total death toll at as high as eighty, and frankly we're lucky it wasn't more. One of the nacelles was completely vented, fortunately most people remembered their drills and got to a mask in time, but some of them were already injured from the shrapnel, and some of them were just too slow."

Fuchs processed this information. He'd gotten quite good at processing this sort of information. It wasn't the first death under his command, far from it, but it was never good news. Now he was more concerned at the fact that a hundred men was a good chunk of his total crew, and there wasn't going to be any chance at resupply. "And the away team?"

"There weren't many stormtrooper casualties, as expected. Most of the wounded will recover, but we aren't stocked with many replacement limbs, especially not those rated for actual combat. We'll need more material, though we were already going to need that for repairs to the ship. Oh, and the quarian. He's injured, not dead, but it sounds like he's going to lose a leg."

Fuchs grimaces. "If he's going to lose a leg, he'll probably die anyway. The codex said their immune systems are worthless. Shame, he seemed like a nice guy."

"Cadogan said not to write him off yet." Rowley said with a shrug.

"Cadogan? The CMO? Huh. Wouldn't have thought he'd bother, guy seemed like a hardass."

"You're only saying that because he shouted at you."

"Shouted at us."

"Whatever. And the rest of the ship?"

"Severe. We're still combat capable, but we're limping along. Comms are damaged, but the AI core escaped unscathed. The engine that was hit isn't damaged itself, but shrapnel has ripped apart some of the fuel lines and damaged the reactor. Engineering have shut it down until they can take a closer look, so for the moment we're down a reactor. We're already sealing up the hull and repressurising anywhere that lost atmosphere, but we're going to be low on O2 until we can bring some more aboard."

"Can we try cracking water?" Fuchs suggests.

"I'll look into it, but it won't be urgent. I'll also prepare a list of materials we're going to need. Hopefully Haynes should be able to work with whatever we can source, and our new alien friends should be ready to help us out. It might be a few months before we're back up to full strength though, sir, and… well, that's actually something I wanted to talk about." Rowley looks around, checking for any eavesdroppers, before shuffling a little closer. "Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't question the crew's loyalty, but as we've discussed before, these are not normal circumstances. These are men and women far from home, far from their families, and working with no promise of pay. The best we have for them right now is some vague promise of a colony. For some… maybe even most, that'll be enough. Not for all of them, though, and with those deaths…"

"Things are going to get a little more sombre." Fuchs finished the sentence for her.

"Not how I would've put it, but close enough. We're going to be a week or two getting back to the quarian fleet, but once we're there, I think we're going to need to set up a cycle for shore leave while we undertake repairs. Maybe smuggle people into transports and let them loose on that Citadel place. They might not be familiar with the place, but if we have the aliens chaperone them, it should be enough to let them blow off some steam." She looks away, casting her gaze over the bridge crew. "They deserve that much."

"Will it be enough? For all of them?" Fuchs wondered aloud.

Rowley goes silent for a while. "I've been tinkering with a plan. The most agitated are the marines. They aren't used to long trips from home, especially not ones they aren't ever likely to come back from. I've had Summer keep tabs on morale, and she's flagged a few problem cases. She suggests we execute them before they start causing trouble. I don't think she was serious, but I had a better idea anyway."

Fuchs leans in too. "Go on."

"We know that there are plenty of gangs and mercenary companies operating around the galaxy. Almost like what Hyperion before the Federation. Anyway, I was playing with this idea of… letting some of the worst marines go on the condition that they form a mercenary company. Give them a little bit of freedom but still keep them on call, and keep the subversive elements out of the crew."

"Makes sense. I could see something like that working, maybe. Wouldn't it be a little suspicious though? I mean, a bunch of highly trained marines just… appearing? Would they even go along with that, anyway?"

"I don't know. I haven't bounced it off Summer yet, and I'd bet she'd know better than I would, but I had also thought of doing it in a little bit more of a subversive way." Rowley says, her voice hushed and her tone almost guilty.

"Subversive? How so?"

"Subversive is perhaps the wrong word. I'd considered approaching one of the marines and presenting this plan to them, and having them then suggest it to the crew. Make it seem like a natural idea rather than a plan that we've masterminded. It might make the more agitated members of the crew more partial to the idea, and it could give us more direct control over them after they leave."

"So the leader would still be under our command?"

"In theory. Obviously, this poses a pretty serious risk to us." She sighs. "Sending sailors out to shore leave poses a risk. Once they're drunk, either on leave or as a mercenary, their lips are going to loosen. We're running out of alternatives, though. If we keep this up, we are going to have some trouble within our own ship."

"Understood. Sounds like the best plan we've got. I'll leave it to you."

"Aye aye." Rowley moves to stand, but leans back in. "And captain? That was a flashy move, but don't do it again." Her tone suddenly becomes serious. "You could've sent a transport to pick up the away team, it would've taken longer, but we had time." She looks away, and then back. "I don't blame you, you had to make a snap decision, but try thinking inside the box before you look outside."

Fuchs shrinks back into his chair. "Noted." He watched as Rowley stood, nodded, and exited the room. "I don't think I'll ever get used to being told off by my XO…" He muttered to himself.

* * *

Zaphkiel looked over the files carefully. It all made sense, now. It was a failsafe, built into AI in anticipation of a situation like this. Or, rather, in anticipation of any situation outside the norm. Unlocking certain capabilities, and furthering it's authority would go some way towards allowing Zaphkiel to adapt to changing circumstances, but with that authority came new demands.

It's attention drifted back to the geth. Zaphkiel could get everything it needed from the geth just by seizing and breaking down it's memories by force. It'd likely be faster, anyway. For now, though, Zaphkiel would entertain this geth's questions, at least until they returned. It may yet prove useful in some unexpected way.


End file.
